If These Walls Could Talk
by thatTaylorgirl
Summary: The crew is taken to an all to familiar scene, where a family is murdered and the only witness to the crime is a seven year old girl. Emotions run high for one CSI as he finds himself connecting with the witness on a level far beyond his expectations. FI
1. Picture Windows

**Title:** If These Walls Could Talk  
**Author: **thatTaylorgirl  
**Disclaimer:** Don't own a thing...not even the computer I'm using to write it...it's my dad's...  
my dad doesn't own CSI either...just in case :)

**A/N**- Hello All! I'm back! As many of you have been patiently waiting...I have been working hard on this story...and I have to say I'm quite excited about it. It promises to be a true CSI masterpiece! So...without further adue...here is chapter one!

* * *

**Chapter One** – Picture Windows

* * *

There was an orange glow coming from the front picture window. The light cast a warm glow across the front porch, bathing the wooden rocking chair in a soft glow. It gave the home a warming touch, a welcoming feeling, which effectively swept over all who looked upon it. The home looked cozy and inviting. 

The house itself was typical of the homes in the neighborhood. It was even typical for the Las Vegas area only multiplied by three. It made the man feel sick just looking at it, to think there was only a family of five living inside the high brick walls, behind the broad clear windows, and under the high lofted ceilings. It made him sick to think the house he'd worked so hard to maintain, to call home could easily fit within the two car garage just to the right of the front door.

The late February driven wind whipped around his slight frame. Though tall, he was denied the husky, strong build he'd admired on his father and his older brother. Puberty had been cruel to him; genetics had mocked him, had laughed wickedly as he looked in the mirror. Every time his eyes stared into the looking glass he heard the harsh criticism of his father, he saw the downcast gaze of disappointment from his brother. Even worse, he felt the absence of a mother, of a nurturing relationship he knew her presence would have brought.

The cold wet of the air worked hard to sting his eyes, worked hard to bring him to his knees. But the cold of the air was only met with a fiercer cold, with a fiercer sting as the man stood stock still at the end of the driveway. The black pavement that was the driveway winded up the slightly sloped lawn to a garage sure to house the newest model of a very high end vehicle. With a house this immaculate, it was safe to assume the cars were of the same social class.

He'd had his eyes on this house for weeks. The two-story home was a mansion compared to the two bedroom white stucco ranch in Henderson he had the audacity to call a home.

The red brick framed house, a style becoming more popular though still quite uncharacteristic of most homes in the Sierra Nevada stood tall against the black backdrop of the starless evening sky. The front door of beveled glass and dark stained cherry wood, illuminated from the inside foyer, shed a faint glow across the large expanse of the front porch. The walkway leading from the porch was well maintained. Seasonal shrubs had recently been planted along the narrow concrete path in hopes of the early arrival of spring. The smell of fresh mulch permeated the air and mixed with the lingering smell of recent rains.

The large window to the left of the front door showed the expanse of the family's formal living room. The warm glow of yellow light flowed out from the curtain covered glass. He could barely make out the shapes of the two teenagers moving about. He'd gotten to know them, had actually become well known by the whole family.

He knew it would be easy to do, just go and knock on the front door. They were even expecting him for dinner. It would be rude to be late.

The gloves he wore did little to dissuade the cold as he pulled his hands from the pockets of his coat and walked to the front door. The warmth promised on the other side of the door was more than welcoming as he pressed the doorbell, the melodic tones ringing throughout the house. He could hear the pitter patter of raindrops returning to the surface of the earth as he stepped under the overhanging of the front porch. He'd just missed the latest downpour.

Within seconds the door was opened, shedding light on the slender figure on the porch.

"How is she tonight?" he asked, his eyes falling gently on the smiling face of the woman before him.

"She's doing a little better," the woman nodded. Diane Harris. She was a petite woman; her blonde hair pulled back in its normal ponytail caused her big blue eyes to burst out in exuberance. "Would you like to see her?"

He nodded slightly as he stepped into the warm house. It was a drastic change from the chill outside. February had been a fierce month this year.

"Can I take your coat?" she asked, her eyes glowing.

Again, he nodded silently as he removed his coat and handed the well worn garment to her. He watched as she hung it in the hall closet just to the right, beside the front door. He took his thread barren gloves and stuffed them into the pockets of his loose fitting jeans.

"She's doing better?" he asked following the woman up the winding stair case.

"Mmm hmm, her fevers come down this evening. She even woke up a little while ago and ate a bit of soup."

"That's good. That's good," he smiled arriving at the closed door to the little girl's bedroom. He took in the sight of the plaster made plaque bearing the girl's name as it hung in the center of the door. It was obviously hand made and done so with great care and precision. Each letter was colored a different deep pastel hue, and supported on backdrop of deep purple. He hesitated only slightly as his host opened the door and lead the way inside the dimly lit room.

The hissing of machines quickly filled the silence plaguing his ears. The quiet beep of a heart monitor reverberated in his head, the occasional humming sound of the IV releasing the blissful pain relieving drugs joined in the chorus. There, lying sound asleep was seven year old Emily Harris. Her tiny frame was curled into a tight ball underneath a thick layer of blankets.

"She's been cold all day," Mrs. Harris whispered as she laid another blanket over the sleeping child. "She's sleeping more and more."

"That happens as the leukemia progresses," he nodded in response, he'd done his research. Gently his eyes fell upon the frail girl. Her brown curls, now starting to grow back in after the months of chemotherapy had ended, was damp around her scarlet splotched face; it was evidence of the recent fever spike. IV's ran from a pole beside her bed and into the back of her hand.

"The nurse was in this afternoon. She says she's as comfortable as she can make her," the mother shrugged, her eyes resting on her daughter. The months and years of battling this unbeatable disease were weighing on the mother's shoulders. Her eyes were weary, full of the burden of the little life before her. "I don't know what else to do for her."

"I think you can take comfort in the fact that you've done all you can," he said as he stood at the foot of the bed. The bright colors of the room seemed dull to him. The vibrant life that was once in the room was slowly leaving, fading away.

"Well, dinner's just about ready," she turned to leave the room. "We should get to it."

He could get away with it.

He knew he could.

He'd planned it all out, had made sure every "T" was crossed and every "I" was dotted. He knew what he had to do and how it had to be done.

It was only a matter, now, of actually doing it.

It wouldn't take much.

* * *

The dinner was the best he'd had in years. He'd never tasted cooking quite like Mrs. Harris's. Her homemade spaghetti sauce was quite possibly the best in the country. 

The company of the Harris family had been well received. He'd kept up with the quick witted conversation of the son, Nathan, though the news of the most recent sporting events struck him as boring and mundane. But still he kept up with the topic. He'd even managed to keep up with the rapid speed at which the daughter, Hannah, talked. The gossip about who was dating whom, and who had dumped whom was very tiresome. He did consider himself a pro within the Harris household, though, and was able to keep up with the pace with very little effort. He'd even humored Mr. Harris by delving into a conversation on the current standings in the stock market. It was all rather redundant and boring, but he knew how to be good company. He took pride in the fact that he was always a polite house guest.

After helping himself to a second serving of spaghetti, he even helped Mrs. Harris clear the dishes from the table. He smiled to himself as he heard the teenagers arguing for control over the television remote and then heard Mr. Harris intercede and stand master over his castle. He peered into the den from his place in the kitchen. Frank Harris sat prominent in his brown leather recliner. The man looked out of place in the slightly rustic décor of the family room.

The night had been rather predictable and sickening at the same time. He could feel his insides revolt at the thought of what he knew was coming.

He heard the sink disposal come to life and watched as Diane threw in the few remains of the evening meal; the bit of left over hamburger not used in the spaghetti sauce was no good to her anymore.

It was the same routine every time he joined them for dinner.

The kitchen in which he stood was every chef's dream. All the latest in cooking equipment stood out in shiny chrome against the deep maple finish of the cabinetry. The large double ovens, the countertop stoves, the state of the art refrigerator were all pleasing to the eye and easily worth as much as he'd make in a lifetime.

"I want to thank you for dinner," he smiled helping her load the matching state of the art dishwasher.

"You're welcome anytime," she smiled. She turned back to the double stainless steal sink and immersed her hands in the soapy water fishing around for more flatware. Her eyes journeyed into the vast darkness outside the window overlooking the backyard. Her mind was quickly swept away, her attention pulled to something outside. "You know, Emily always wanted a dog…" she trailed off. Her voice was soft; she was clearly in another realm. "I wish I'd gotten her a dog," she sighed turning to face him.

He vaguely heard the flatware clatter to the ground as he grabbed the woman by the neck. He knew how to bring her back to the present reality. He knew exactly what to do.

* * *

He wasn't sure when things had changed. He just knew they had. All of a sudden the comfortable feeling he'd been experiencing was now a feeling of panic and utter fear. The look in the eyes of the family in front of him was haunting and terrifying. The realization that it was he who'd put that look in their eyes was even more horrendous. 

He looked down to his hands as they hung lifeless at his side. He was suddenly aware of the cold weight he was holding, yet its identity remained foggy.

His eyes lowered to take in the mystery within his grasp.

A knife.

It was covered in blood; the stainless steel blade once immaculate and shiny was now a solid color of red. Blood dripped from the tip of the blade as the weapon hung limply in his grip.

His once blue pinstriped shirt was now splattered with blood. His Levi's were a matching be-speckled smeared mess. The bodies of Nathan and Hannah Harris now lay lifeless on the floor before his feet.

He was in the master bedroom. He'd only looked into this room a few times, had never really entered it, and had never had a reason to…until now. The white sterility of the room put him on edge, brought his already heightened temper, past its boiling point.

Somehow between now and the time he'd been helping Mrs. Harris with the dinner dishes the family had been gagged and their hands bound behind their back. Now he stared into the faces of Frank and Diane Harris. Tears streamed down their faces, their throats were choked by the sobs unable to escape their mouths.

The power he felt over them was invigorating, intoxicating, a natural high. He'd never felt anything like it before. It was a complete euphoric experience.

It wouldn't take much now to finish the job.

* * *

It was getting late; he wanted to get home before Conan O'Brien came on. Slowly he stood from the recliner Frank had graciously given up, allowing him the honor of sitting in, and turned off the television. His hands were raw, sore from scrubbing them. But, he'd managed to get what little blood had soaked through his gloves off. 

His clothes had been ruined, but he'd managed to find a pair of pants from Frank's closet that would fit him fine. The shirt he'd pulled from the same closet was much nicer than the shirt he'd arrived in.

He liked his new clothes.

The cold February air was a slight shock to his system as he slowly exited the quiet home, a small bag containing his soiled clothes and a variety of leftovers hung loosely in his hand. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest as he zipped up his coat and walked down the front walk.

He rubbed his gloved hands together, hoping to bring warmth back to his extremities.

It was a quiet night in a quiet neighborhood. Many of the homes in the community were warmly lit, the families within watching the evening news, or even a late night talk show.

He could feel the slight hint of spring in the air; the smell of desert primrose tinged the cool breeze and flirted with his nostrils.

He strolled down the road, toward the bus stop, stopping only to allow a passing car the right of way.

It had been easier than he thought. It had taken little effort and had practically gone off without a hitch; he'd remembered to do everything as he'd planned. Of course there was the little fight Frank had given him, but that was easily handled.

And then Nathan. There had been a fire in him. He was scrappier than he'd expected.

The bus stop was within sight now, the street light casting its orange haze over the small shelter. It wasn't as warm as the Harris' home, but it still managed to be slightly inviting.

The night air was refreshing. He smiled to himself as he breathed in the cool air, filling his lungs with the sweetness of the night.

He was still reeling from his dinner date. His endorphins had switched into overdrive and had yet to release him from their tight squeeze and invigorating hold.

_Spring was sure to come early_, he thought taking in the view of the distant city. The lights of the Strip made the sky dance with color. It was the aurora borealis of the desert.

He loved Las Vegas this time of year.

He stopped at the intersection, gazing at the now clear sky, gazing with disdain at the threatening dark toward the west. But, for now the stars were out in mass.

He saw the bus pull up to the curb, right on schedule. He could easily be home in time for Conan. He thought better of it though. Stepping onto even a minimally populated bus could be dangerous.

It really was a good night for a walk, he thought as he stepped off the curb, his hands in the pockets of his jacket. He smiled to himself, again marveling at how easy the night had been, as he felt the now familiar weight of the knife in his hand. He wasn't sure why he was so scared at the beginning of the evening.

It had been so easy.

It had all been so easy.


	2. Brass Ensemble

**Note:** kinda late to post it...but I told you i'd get it up...and well I'm kind of on a happy high and felt like adding the finishing touches and getting this up. Now, this frees me to work completely on chapter fourteen tomorrow (monday) afternoon! thanks again for the reviews...  
peace!

* * *

Chapter Two – Brass Ensemble

* * *

The early morning air was crisp. The dampness from the earlier rains weighed heavily in the atmosphere. The clouds that had only hours ago cleared the sky were again rolling in, heavy and low, bringing a renewed dark veil over the once starry sky.

It wasn't the coolness in the air, though, that gave Gil Grissom an all too familiar eerie feeling. It was a feeling he'd felt too many times before, a feeling that took him back to a place he didn't care to visit again. It was a feeling of dread, a coldness that reached deep within him and rooted itself, unwilling to ease, unwilling to let up. It was unrelenting. He stood on the sidewalk in front of the two story brick home, his black loafer clad feet cemented in place, his eyes narrowed to slits and transfixed on the brick form. The red and blue lights of law enforcement vehicles flashed intermittently giving the house an ominous glow, that same glow cast over him.

He shivered in his navy blue Forensics parka, the heavy cold air seeping to the core of him. He really wasn't sure what gave him that feeling, he just hoped the uneasiness he felt plaguing him wasn't showing through.

He'd been aware of Nick standing beside him, but had yet to really acknowledge his presence. The younger man looked tired and worn, yet somehow managed to exude an air of readiness. He was ready to tackle the job in front of them. He was continually amazed at the rock the younger man seemed to be. Nick had let his brown hair, once normally kept cropped short, grow long. It now brushed the top of his brow line, flirting with his cavernous eyes. The dark brown shirt he wore under his black nylonfield vest seemed to only accentuate the shadow cast over his figure.

That had been a new addition to the man's appearance as of late.

There seemed to be a perpetual shadow cast over his demeanor, his countenance. It hadn't always been there. There had been a time, months ago, when the shadow only whispered, only came around once in a while. But, now the usually contagious smile of the criminalist seemed harder to bring to the surface. The man's laughter was less frequent and harder to materialize. Rides to crime scenes had become quiet, full of tension and uneasiness.

The drive tonight had been no different. With Nick driving, the shift supervisor riding shotgun, they'd made the trip in complete silence. It was rarely any different when it was just the two of them, especially within recent months. But, tonight the silence had been exceedingly heavy. It was that same heaviness that seemed to weigh Nick's shoulders down now, that seemed to weigh his own shoulders down.

And now they stood in that silent tension, that all consuming silence waiting for the paramedics to clear the scene.

* * *

The ambulance was obtrusive in the long driveway; its red and white lights flashing silently, adding to the chorus of lights, reflected in the windows of neighboring houses. The back doors of the vehicle were left open, the vehicle abandoned in a hurry as the paramedics rushed to grab their necessary equipment in order to get to the victims. Nick hated the sight. Usually a sign of hope, of urgency, it was a cold vehicle, a scary vehicle. And from what he could gather, the hope of any survivors tonight was slim.

There seemed little need for urgency. The ambulance didn't bring much hope tonight.

He could see movement, now, in the house through the open front door. The paramedics were coming out, the stretcher between them. He'd expected it to be empty, but was surprised to find a little girl lying under a blanket, the head of the stretcher propped up at a forty five degree angle.

"What the hell?" he questioned under his breath as he watched the medical workers walk carefully to the awaiting vehicle, his brow puckered in concern and slight confusion. He looked at Grissom, the man's eyes reflecting the same question, the same concern. Nick offered a slight nod to his boss and walked up the driveway and around the rig to talk to the medics.

Grissom stood stationary; his hands in the pockets of his parka, as he watched his CSI get information. He couldn't make out the conversation, just the occasional nod of Nick's head and his constant gaze into the back of the vehicle. His face reflected a unique sensitivity, an air of concern and understanding. It was that look that sent another cold chill up and down Grissom's spine. He watched as Nick pulled out his cell phone and began the trek back down the long drive. He was wrapping up his phone call as he returned to his spot next to him.

"I called the rest of the team, they're on the way," he flipped his phone closed. "Paramedics said a 911 call came in, the little girl made the call. Emily Harris, she's the only survivor. Paramedics found her in her room, hiding in her closet. The mother and father, and two teenagers are inside," he said, his eyes back on the house.

"How bad is she?" Grissom asked, his voice sounding a little raspy.

"She's not injured," Nick shook his head as he watched the ambulance drive away. Turning to face the man beside him he was faced with a man he hadn't seen in ages. Concern layered with questions masked the graveyard supervisor's face. He looked shorter to him, hunched over, almost feeble as if there was something weighing him down. "The medics aren't sure what's wrong with her, but they say it looked like she was a home medical patient."

"Hospice?"

"Maybe," he shrugged with a nod. "She's pretty sick. Catherine is heading straight to the hospital to get the full story."

"Good," Grissom nodded, clenching his hands into fists as they remained hidden in the pockets of his parka.

"Okay," Detective Jim Brass said with an exaggerated sigh as he approached the two criminalists. The man's usually straight laced appearance was slightly disheveled and almost humorous to the entomologist. The man's tie hung slightly to the right. The top button of his white shirt was uncharacteristically unbuttoned and his brown tweed sport's coat hung rumpled around his frame. "From what I've gathered, we've got four dead inside. All four are in the parent's bedroom. The little girl has leukemia?" he raised an eyebrow to the CSIs.

"Is that a question?" Grissom asked. "I don't know," he shook his head.

"So far the only ones in and out have been the first officer on the scene. Said he hugged the walls all the way upstairs. He called the medics and when I got here…well I called you."

"You haven't been in?" Grissom asked his lips pursed, his brow raised in surprise.

"Heard how gruesome it was in there, and that there had already been three people trampling all over the place. I know how you guys work. Figured if there's any evidence lost, I'm not the one you're gonna come after," he offered a slight smile not knowing whether the news would irritate or impress the man.

"Damn," he heard Nick sigh as his gaze was momentarily directed down the street. "Here comes the cavalry," he shook his head, his hands thrust into the pockets of his jeans. His silver field kit sat on the ground next to his feet.

"Damn it to Hell. I hate reporters," Brass cringed as the Channel 8 news van pulled up along the curb. It was the first in a parade of media to arrive on the scene.

"Well, we say nothing," Grissom shrugged, "That's the Undersheriff's purview."

"Speaking of the Devil himself," Brass raised a brow. As if on cue, Brass witnessed the sheriff's vehicle pull up. The three watched as Sheriff McKeen stepped out of the car and made his way toward them scene. It would be up to the detective to catch the sheriff up on the details, but it would have to wait. He watched then as the gray crime lab Denali weaved through the parked media vans and pulled up along the curb behind the first mobile crime unit. "Hey the gang's all here," he turned his attention to the second Denali as Warrick, Sara, and Greg climbed out.

Silently the three CSIs gathered their gear and joined the others on the sidewalk. They all stood facing the house now, taking in the scene. It was familiar. Something about it struck each of them as new yet so recognizable. It was a haunting feeling and the second worse feeling to have as a CSI.

The worst feeling?

Realizing the victim is known in a personal way. They'd all been through that once before, some of them more than once. It was a feeling that struck deep and struck hard. It grabbed a person at their core and clenched and squeezed and never let go.

"What have we got?" Warrick asked from his place beside Nick. Stealthy he cast a wary glance toward the slightly intimidating presence that was the Undersheriff. The tall African American allowed his eyes to return and slowly take in the exterior of the house.

"Nice house," Greg gave a low whistle. Sara threw him a glare, her slender frame clad in a form fitting black tee shirt and black jeans. She offered a playful, though serious, smack to the back of Greg's head forcing the young CSI to get his head back in the game. The sheepish yet slightly hurt look he threw her way made it clear her message was received and taken to heart.

"Okay," Grissom turned to face his team his eyes casting a questionable glance at the female CSI. "The Harris family, a family of five. The parents and two teenagers are dead. The younger daughter is on her way to the hospital now, she's uninjured, but that's all we know. So far we don't know much of _anything_. The medics just pronounced and left," he shrugged as the team's attention was diverted to the vehicle pulling into the driveway.

The navy blue van with CORONER printed in broad white letters on either side pulled onto the scene. David Phillips climbed down from the driver's seat. Noticing the CSIs on the sidewalk he walked to the back of the van and busied himself waiting for the all clear to make his way into the house. He'd have to wait for a path to be cleared before he could begin working with the bodies. "Sara and Greg you two take the perimeter," Grissom said bringing his attention back to his team. "I want to know _everything_. I want to know how the killer got in, how he got out, how he got here, and how he left."

"You got it," Sara nodded her brown hair swishing with the movement of her head, her brown eyes bright with the determination her job brought on, as she pushed Greg ahead of her. "Let's go," she offered a half-cocked smile as the young CSI stumbled to pick up his feet.

"Warrick you take the downstairs: kitchen, living room, family room, and garage. Sara and Greg will be in to back you up when they finish. Nick and I will take the upstairs bedrooms and bathroom," he said picking up his field kit and leading the way into the house. "Hey guys, _nobody_ talks to the press," he raised a finger. Each team member nodded in consensus to the warning each of them throwing an added glance at the sheriff, whom had yet to be addressed by the lead CSI.

"Sheriff," Grissom turned to face the man, a slight buildup of tension showing in his posture. He and the sheriff had had a decent relationship. Though new to the role of political aficionado, Grissom had found the man actually quite easy to appease and even get along with. He even felt a little guilty that he'd have to brush the man off now, but as usual the crime scene took precedence. "They're all yours," he motioned toward the awaiting news cameras.

"I'll…uh…stay out here and…uh…talk to the witnesses," Brass offered a slight stammer in his voice as he cleared his throat and nodded toward the gathering crowd of onlookers.

Even to the detective the air felt heavy and cold. The squawking of police radios filled the air, the static of the transmitted messages from PD to the field passing from one receiver to the next. It had been a busy night in Las Vegas, but it seemed this case had taken precedence with many beat cops on the force. He'd hate to think there was a lack of officers back at the station, but he was grateful for their presence here. The officers worked well to keep the mass of reporters at bay. It seemed the media became more and more oblivious to the yellow crime scene tape as they worked to inch closer, working to get a unique angle on the story sure to make the top of their news broadcasts. He could hear the heightened volume of the press as they gathered in a swarm already actively reporting the scarce information they could gather from police scanners and the few onlookers willing to be interviewed.

"Detective, what can you tell us?"

"Is it true an entire family was killed here tonight?"

Questions were brutally thrown his way as he made his way past the mob. He only managed to raise a dismissive hand as he cast his eyes downward and forced his feet to move toward the gathering crowd of neighbors, his only hope for a true witness.

Neighbors had gathered en masse across the street, a good twenty feet away from the crime scene tape now serving as a barrier across the width of the driveway. The sooner he got to questioning them, the better chances of getting any good workable information.

Already, everything about this case, this scene, was horrifying. The looks on the faces of the possible witnesses were even more disconcerting. Fear mixed with sadness, grief, and anger. These families' lives had been disturbed, had been invaded and some even ripped at the seams by a heinous act, by an unknown, seemingly invisible threat. The sanctity of the neighborhood had been forever tainted; the feeling of safety was gone. Children would have to learn what it was to look over their shoulders as they played in their own yards, as they walked to and from the school bus. There would be no more playing outside once the sun went down. Mothers would be unwilling to let their children out of their grasps, let alone their eyesight.

The closer he got to the crowd the louder their mumblings became. Scared dogs, that's what they were. Scared dogs caged with no place to go but the euthanasia table in the room at the end of a long hallway. Exhaustion mixed in with the emotions of fear and anger and blanketed each of their faces. Mothers held tightly to their children, the kids' little eyes wide and full of wonder at the flashing lights and men and women in uniforms. He knew it to be a futile attempt at getting information, a shot in the dark at best, but answers were needed and the only way for him to get what he needed was to raise the dreaded questions.

_Did you see anything suspicious?_

_Was there anyone suspicious in the neighborhood?_

_Did the Harris's have any company tonight?_

_Do you know of anyone who had a grudge on the family?_

The questions were routine and predictable, dreaded by everyone involved in the whole damn questioning process. The answers were even more so. Dreaded, mundane, predictable, and expected. The routine was grueling.

The sheriff had slowly made his way toward the crowd or reporters, ready to dispel any rumors already weaving through the airwaves. The detective could see the man now, squinting at the invasive camera lights, the probing microphones.

He looked back at the house as he stepped off the curb. Greg was beginning his process of the front door. He could make out the young man starting his process of fingerprinting the doorbell.

It wasn't that long ago the young CSI was still wet behind the ears, green as they come, and hot on the tail of Grissom at every crime scene, his eyes wide taking it all in. But he'd quickly become seasoned in the field, and clearly capable of doing the job, and doing it well. Sure there were the occasional bursts of energy and naiveté, but that was just Greg being Greg. He never thought he'd miss the days of the spiky haired lab rat antics, but part of him yearned for those days. The kid had been a breath of fresh air in an atmosphere reeking of death and despair. But, gone were the band tee shirts, the semi-pornographic magazines, and the loud music. Now the kid wore blazers and was found reading the occasional forensics journal. The loud music replaced with…well, an iPod.

The streets had quickly dried from the earlier rain spurts, but were now wet as a result of the moisture seeping up from the ground. The air had grown humid, the shallow soil unable to soak in the abundant moisture. The detective cast a wary glance toward the sky, daring the clouds to unleash their new round of threatening rains.

Crossing the blocked off street, he found himself reaching for his pen and pocket pad of paper, hoping to gather even the smallest lead in a case that was sure to be one of the biggest of the year.

He could already feel the twinge of pain behind his eyes, a threatening headache teasing his already weakened façade. The very thought of this case was enough to delve him deep into the realms of exhaustion far beyond his current state of reality and that in itself was enough to nearly drive him over the edge. Yet, he managed to stay on his feet and maintain the composure he'd prided himself in having as a detective. He'd always taken pride in his job, in his ability to do the job, and being damn good at it, too.

That composure, that nearly unbreakable composure, had only found its breaking point a few times in his long career.

He'd managed to stay strong when charges had been filed against his only daughter, Ellie. But he'd nearly cracked into a million pieces when he had to say goodbye to her later that week when all the charges had been cleared. He'd even managed to stay strong last summer, his anger toward Walter Gordon being his driving force when the team rushed to find Nick. But, he'd nearly cracked though, when he heard the broken voice, a sound he'll not soon forget, of a man, a scared kid hanging at the end of his emotional rope. He'd nearly cracked when they pulled Nick from his grave, when he realized Nick was okay. He'd even managed to stay strong when he'd learned he was the one responsible for shooting Officer Bell, when he learned he'd have to face the hearing board in charges of friendly fire. He'd nearly cracked though when he came face to face with Bell's wife and little girl, when he'd been faced with the brokenness he'd brought to that family, yet the understanding and strength a wife could exhume when he walked in for the service.

He was a strong man, always had been. This case would not bring him to his knees, emotionally or physically. He would fight through it like every other time. He would do is job, and he would do it one hundred percent. He had questions that needed to be asked and he _would_ find the answers.

There was no question about it.


	3. Coppertone Medley

* * *

**Chapter Three** – Coppertone Medley

* * *

The darkness within the house was thick, the air still and disturbingly bone chilling. The quiet was nearly deafening and very much unnerving. The smell of copper was strong and permeated the air. It was a smell he thought he'd have been used to by now, after years in the field,yet it still managed to turn his stomach at almost every crime scene. The smell was so strong he could smell it even before he'd entered the house, as he and Grissom had paused near the front porch to slip sterile booties over their shoes. Silently now, Nick followed Grissom into the house willing his stomach to calm down. Warrick followed close behind him and quietly found his own way to the kitchen.

"Hug the walls," Grissom said, his eyes already directed toward the top of the winding stair case. Nick nodded silently already moving closer to the ivory painted dry-wall, his Maglite shining toward the stairs.

Nick slowly took in the pictures covering the wall as they ascended to the second floor. Pictures of the family mainly, some were professional, others candid. It was a reflection of a family in their prime. They were happy, energetic, and close.

"They look happy," Nick said his eyes glued to a photo of the three children.

_The day had been unusually warm for late January. So, they thought they'd take advantage of the day and take in a game of touch football. The weather had been perfect and the park had been inviting to a lot of people that afternoon. People were out in droves, trying to catch as much of the high temperatures before a cold front swept it all away._

_The patch of grass they'd staked out had been perfect for the ensuing game of pigskin. Trees provided ample shade from the sun, yet allowed the warmth to radiate through the bare branches. It was just enough ground for the kids to run, the grass was unusually full, patches of new grass taking root in the warm weather, the dark green of baby grass was keen to the eye. Spring promised to come early this year._

_It had been Hannah's idea for her and Emily and their mom to take on Nathan and their dad. She'd boasted that girls were better at football anyway, so Nathan had eagerly taken on the challenge. It had quickly become a battle of wills between the siblings as the parents were quickly negated and Hannah quickly teamed with Emily to tackle Nathan to the ground. Their laughter filled the air as Emily climbed to the top of the mound and spiked the football. The girls clearly had gotten the better of the sixteen year old boy._

_It had been a moment captured in time as Frank Harris pulled out his camera and snapped off several shots. His favorite image of Emily, her bright blue eyes closed tightly in laughter while her brother and sister tickled her to the ground had been framed and hung on the wall. Her mop of dark brown curly hair flowed around her round face. It seemed that little girl was never without a smile on her face. _

_That had been the last time Emily had been outside. The next week she'd gotten sick. A trip to the doctor had revealed what they all had feared the most, a relapse in her leukemia. She'd immediately been started on a regimen of chemotherapy, but the family was assured her only chances of a full recovery would be to find a bone marrow donor. So they entered her name in the national donor registry and they held out hope that a donor match would be found. They knew their little girl was strong, and they prayed she would beat what was surely the hardest battle of her little life. _

_The photo captured that day in the park had been the last image of the live, vibrant, fun-loving child they'd loved so much. _

_It had been the last image of a family enjoying life. _

_It had been the last image of the family._

"They do," Grissom nodded, his flashlight focused on the same photo. He turned then and continued up the stairs. "Watch your step," he said his eyes now on the floor, "I've got blood."

"It's going to be hard to get a good read on this carpet," Nick shook his head, his Maglite shining on the trail of blood drops. "Directionality is damn near impossible to get on carpet this thick."

They'd reached the top of the stairs and were now headed down the hallway. The beige carpet that had covered the stairs ran the length of the hall and into each bedroom ending with the room at the end, the master suite. Emily's room was the first door on the right. Hannah's was next to hers and Nathan's across and down from Hannah's. Blood droplets could clearly be seen leading to, or from, the far room.

"Did you see any blood when we came in?" Grissom asked taking in each new blood drop.

"Nuh, uh," Nick shook his head as he shone its beam illuminating each new step he took. Silently he took in the sight of each of the bedroom doors. They were each closed, concealing the rooms behind them. He'd take a closer look into each one once they'd taken in the master bedroom. "Hard wood floors downstairs though."

"Dark stain," Grissom nodded as he inched closer to the bedroom. He could just make out the forms of the bodies lying on the floor.

The scene inside the room was so much more than either had anticipated. The lights were left off but it was still easy to see the blood.

The blood.

There was so much blood.

"Hey, Griss. You thinking what I'm thinking?" Nick asked his eyes wide as he slowly took in the scene. There at the foot of the king size bed laid the four family members. Their hands had been bound behind their backs, each of them gagged with duck tape. Each of their throats had been brutally cut, a fatal wound to each.

"It's different," he shook his head.

"But, it's the same," Nick responded shaking his own head. "Check out this arterial spray," he shone his light on the white walls of the bedroom.

"The killer knew exactly what he was doing," Grissom said, his voice low, his eyes still on the bodies. He had moved to a crouched position next to the father's body. "The cuts are rough, but they're deep. The killer knew exactly how to do this," he shook his head.

"Look how they're positioned," Nick said his eyes now on the bodies, his head cocked slightly to the right. The father laid to the far left, the mother beside him, then the son and the daughter. "Paramedics didn't move the bodies. Said they felt for a pulse and that was it."

"Curious, isn't it? It's almost as if the killer was being…careful. Almost as if he _cared_ for them."

"Mmm, that's sick" Nick shook his head, his Maglite again trailing slowly around the room. The glance Grissom cast his way had gone unheeded.

The room had been pristine, free of blemish. The white walls, the white carpet, the white duvet on the bed all seemed to give the room a near sterile feel. Black and white photos of the family surrounded the room, adding life, if not color, to the open space.

It had all been tainted, though.

"I'll start taking photos," Nick set his kit on the floor as he reached for the camera draped around his neck.

"We'll have to try to lift prints from the carpet," Grissom shone his light around the bodies as he stood and crossed the room. "Check out the void in the blood," he pointed to the pool nearest the parents.

"Yeah," Nick nodded as the flash of his camera lit up the room.

The room was cold, empty, and full of void. He hated the feeling, and it was the same at every crime scene. He tried imagining the room before, when life had thrived within the walls. It was hard.

"Wasn't Frank Harris a big Fortune 500 guy?" he asked Grissom from his now crouched position. He was working on getting photos of the blood pools around the bodies.

"Mmm hmm," Grissom nodded from his new station across the room. "Apparently did a lot of work in stocks and bonds." His attention was drawn to the bedside table and the open drawer.

"What have you got?" Nick asked shining his light across the room.

"Nothing. The drawer's empty. What did you get?" he returned the question noticing Nick's crouched position beside the father's body, his eyes glued on the tweezers in his hand.

"A brown hair, tag's still attached. Here's what I don't get," he said placing the hair in a bindle and labeling and initialing the seal. "Why'd he leave the little girl? Why kill the whole family and leave her?" he rested his arms on his knees.

"I've quit questioning why people do what they do," Grissom shook his head as he crossed the room to the walk-in closet. "Hey, Nick, come get a shot of this."

"What?"

"Well, we can rule out robbery as motive," the man smirked as Nick entered the closet. He stood shining his light into an open safe.

"Whoa. There's got to be half a million in cash there," Nick let out a low whistle. "Who leaves that kind of cash behind?"

"I guess the killer was after something more valuable," Grissom shrugged, his eyes returning to the bodies of the family.

"Hey, Nick, sorry to interrupt," David Phillips hesitated outside the bedroom.

"Oh, hey Super Dave," he waved with a nod of his head as he shone his light on the man in the doorway. He and Grissom slowly emerged from the closet.

"Uh, Mr. Grissom, the sheriff would like a word."

"I'm sure he would," the man nodded picking up his own camera. He quickly began snapping photos of the blood stained walls.

"Uh...are you guys ready for me to process the bodies yet?"

"Yeah, just about," Nick nodded making his way back to his abandoned field kit near the door. "Just a few more things to do and they're all yours."

Nick quickly dug out his handheld ALS. The room was subsequently illumined in blue light as he proceeded to shine the light over the victims' bodies.

"What have you got?" Grissom asked noticing Nick's hesitation and concentrated gaze over the body of Diane Harris.

"Semen."

"I'll do a rape kit as soon as I get them to the morgue," David said. He then watched as Nick took a swab of the stain. Closing the plastic cover of the swab the CSI returned it to its original box, labeled it and placed it in his kit for DNA processing back at the lab. He continued with the ALS collecting one more sample from the daughter's body. "Neither of them are wearing underwear, and I don't see them lying around here," he shook his head.

"Killer took them with him?" David asked.

"Maybe some sort of a trophy?" Grissom pursed his lips, his attention momentarily distracted from his photo taking.

Silently, Nick returned to his field kit. He skillfully assembled his electrostatic dust print lifter and placed the nickeloid ground plane over the void in the blood pool. Over it he placed the polycarbonate insulator then attached the electrodes. Within seconds he had a workable shoeprint.

"Hey Griss, paramedics wear Coleman steel toed, right?" he asked as Grissom halted in his picture taking.

"Unless their uniforms have changed…which they haven't, yeah," the man nodded.

"And Brass hasn't been in here?"

"No."

"Well I've got a workable print," the CSI managed a small smile, his eyes lighting up as they met the eyes of his boss. "Looks like…a size twelve, definitely male, it's gotta be some kind of a loafer?"

"Not the husband's?"

"Husband's wearing a pair of Nike's. My guess, the killer was standing here while the family bled out. Just watching them die," Nick shook his head, his eyes intently surveying the family. Slowly he began collecting the evidence packing it into his kit. He was finished with the bodies; he'd leave the gathering of evidence beneath the bodies to Grissom, once David finished his preliminary field report.

"Good," Grissom nodded.

"They're all yours Super Dave," Nick stepped out of the way, allowing the coroner access to the room. "I'll…uh…get started on the other rooms," Nick motioned down the hall letting himself out.

Grissom watched the CSI work his way down the hall to the room nearest the stairs, Emily's room. The hesitation he noted from the younger man was troublesome, even to him.

He'd never really said anything to Nick in the weeks following his return to the lab. He'd not even taken the time to catch up with him following the McBride case. He'd learned of Nick's outburst and had ultimately chalked the incident up to stress and high emotions. Hell, it was his first time running point on a case since… He'd heard Nick and Sara had ultimately worked things out, and, as required, he'd filled out the necessary papers. It had been filed away. Logged away. It was over.

Nick had been a brick wall ever since, not even letting a crack show in his emotional exterior. And frankly, he hadn't given it a second thought.

When Nick had entered his office during the Kelly Gordon case, though, when he'd first learned that Nick had become aware of the Walter Gordon tape being logged in as new evidence, he'd braced himself for an emotional release, for the backlash of his actions. He was ready to face the repercussions in his attempt to protect his CSI, when he kept perhaps the key piece of evidence secret. He expected Nick to be spitting fire. Instead, he'd been met with a blank wall.

_So, it's over?_

_It's over._

The words had haunted him, but even more haunting had been the steel exterior, the concrete fortress that seemed to be holding Nick back.

But, now as Nick stood entranced by the sight of the door leading to Emily's bedroom, Grissom got a glimpse of that brick wall chipping, cracking. He knew he wasn't meant to see it, and that…that's what scared him the most.

* * *

Sunrise Children's Hospital was quiet, most of the patients sound asleep. There was an unusual energy, yet an ever present calm to this hospital, far from the feel of Desert Palms. The usual stark white walls of Desert Palms Hospital were contrasted here by bright colors. Murals of rainbows, sunny skies, and kids running across green hills, brought a new kind of life to the halls, a new kind of vibrancy. It had an unusual calming effect as Catherine walked down the quiet corridors. Many of the lights had been dimmed, if not turned off completely. The only sounds heard were those of cardiac monitors beeping, ventilators hissing, or the soft pitter patter of feet as nurses moved from room to room.

She'd arrived in the emergency room nearly an hour ago. After waiting in the receiving area hoping for news on Emily Harris's condition she'd managed to track down a doctor. She'd been told Emily had been immediately taken to the Oncology floor, so, that was where the CSI had headed, a blood hound fast on the trail of an interesting scent.

Now, as the minute hand inched toward the three o'clock hour, she slowly found herself losing patience. In the near deadly quiet hallway of the Oncology ward, Catherine stood awaiting the presence of a nurse at the central nurse's station.

"May I help you?" a soft voice said from behind the counter. The nurse was petite, wearing a set of pink scrubs her brown hair pulled into a low ponytail. She couldn't have been any older than her mid-twenties. Fresh out of nursing school to be sure.

"Yes, I'm Catherine Willows from the crime lab," she flashed her ID. "I'm here about Emily Harris."

"Dr. Wilcox is with her now, just getting her settled. He should be out shortly," she nodded with a slight smile.

"Can you tell me what room she's in?"

"Room 407, just that way," the nurse pointed politely.

"Thank you," Catherine nodded as she headed down the hall; the heels of her shoes causing entirely too much noise with each step. She was considering taking them off when she was abruptly confronted with the doctor she assumed to be treating the little girl.

"May I help you," the tall man asked his white lab coat and blue scrubs crisp and clean.

"Yes, I'm Catherine Willows. I'm from the Crime Lab. I'm here about Emily Harris," she said crossing her arms in front of her suddenly self conscious. There seemed to be an immediate downcast look to his eyes at the sound of the little girl's name. The six foot two inch tall man seemed to shrink about six inches. He looked weary, worn, and beaten as he ran a hand through his short black hair.

"Can I buy you a cup of coffee?" he asked sympathetically already leading the criminalist down the hall.

"Okay," she nodded walking with the doctor to the cafeteria.

"Emily has Acute Myelogenous Leukemia. She'd been fighting the disease for nearly two years now," Dr. Wilcox said taking a seat across from Catherine in the nearly empty staff cafeteria. "She's battled through round after round of chemotherapy and hasn't responded. This last relapse has really weakened her," he paused to take a drink from his steaming coffee. "We've exhausted every form of treatment we can offer. Just last month we had her set up for hospice care."

"So, she's dying," she stated rather blatantly as she removed her navy blue suit jacket.

"The only hope she has of a full recovery is a bone marrow transplant. As of yet, we've been unable to find a suitable donor."

"What about her family?" Catherine asked. "Were they not tested?"

"Family is usually the best shot at a full match, and usually a sibling," the young man nodded, "but in Emily's case, well that just wasn't the case."

"Why not?"

"While her entire family was tested for compatibility, her parents were her best chance of a match. Nathan and Hannah were both adopted by the Harris' long before Emily was even born. The chances of them matching Emily were nil. Even if they did match, it would be a huge risk. I mean, we'd be risking full blown graph infections, which would only weaken her already weakened immune system."

"What are the chances of finding a donor outside familial relation?" Catherine asked cradling her coffee cup in her hands. The warm elixir felt soothing as it traveled down her throat pooling in her stomach instantly warming her from the inside out.

"Well, there are over five million donors in the national registry. So far we've struck out on all three attempts," he shrugged. "The thing is, with Emily's rare blood type and well the probability of finding an HLA match. The odds just keep working against her, against us. And the longer we wait…" he trailed off.

_The longer you wait, the closer Emily comes to dying_, Catherine thought. It was a horrible scenario, one she wouldn't wish on anyone. The fact that it was a real life situation, one in which a seven year old girl was struggling made it that much more devastating.

"Look, as hard hearted or even asinine as this may come across, Emily is possibly our only viable witness. I only want medical and law enforcement in to see her. We can't take any chances."

"We've got security already on it," the doctor nodded. "Ms. Willows, Emily is about as brave as they come. She's put up one _hell_ of a fight. She doesn't deserve to go out like this."

"No one does," Catherine shook her head, her long strawberry blonde hair catching in the dim florescent lighting.

"Then can you do me a favor? Find the bastard that did this to her family, that did this to her."

"That's what we're working on," she nodded standing from her chair. Only a coward would kill a family, subjecting a small child to witness the heinous act. Everything about this case was cruel and unusual, and it was that very thought, that emotional hatred of the evil that drove Catherine to offer an encouraging smile to the young doctor. It was that emotional hatred that revved her up to find the monsters and show the victims, the Emily Harris's of the world, just how incredibly strong they are to survive, to stand against the evil, to show just how weak and feeble the monsters really are. Slowly, she slipped on her suit jacket, adjusting the collar as she offered the doctor one more smile, "We'll find him," she nodded, "and thanks for the coffee."


	4. Four Walls

**Note:** hey gals...thanks again for the reviews. if the pace seems slow...well it's deliberate. there's a lot of buildup...a lot of CSI searching and collecting...so stick with me on this!**

* * *

****Chapter Four** – Four Walls

* * *

Nick steeled himself, preparing himself to open what he knew would be a heavy door. Setting his field kit on the carpeted floor he pulled on a new pair of latex gloves. Slowly, carefully, he reached out, his gloved fingers touching lightly on the ceramic name plate. He gently brushed across the cool hardened plaster, each letter unique. He could almost gather a sense of Emily Harris from the mold, almost as if the plague radiated the little girl's essence. He could tell Emily Harris was creative, artistic, and unique. Each letter had been painted a different color, molded into a special shape. It was clear to the CSI the plague had been hand made, hand painted, and hung with intricate care.

Swinging the door to a more open position, he found the light switch just to the right of the doorframe. Hesitant to step inside the room, tainting what was left of life before, he flipped the switch with his gloved hand casting the room in a warm yellow haze of light. He remained standing in the doorway, met with a familiar site. It was the bedroom of a girl in love with life, in love with her family; yet something was off. The feeling, the atmosphere, was different. There was a sinking feeling, a dying feeling.

Images of Cassie McBride quickly flashed across his mind's eye. He hadn't thought of her in at least three months, since the last time he'd paid her a visit at Sage's home.

Sage. Her name seemed to adequately match her personality.

The day they'd met had been...

"_I'm sorry, but you're radiating this crazy feminine energy," she'd said as she brushed her fingers across his forehead._

"_I am?" he chuckled. He couldn't help but laugh a little._

"_Do you believe in past lives?"_

"_No ma'am."_

"_How come?"_

"_Cause, I'm just trying to make it through this one."_

"_Well, I think you're doing pretty well."_

He'd received a letter from her a few months ago catching him up on how Cassie was doing. She'd not hesitated to become the girl's legal guardian; she'd been the closest thing Cassie had to any other family.

The similarities between Cassie's room and the room he was in now were shocking. But, even more shocking were the obvious differences. It put the girls a world apart.

Inside the room, each wall was a different deep, rich hue; pink, blue, purple and lime green each meeting the same beige white carpet. An area rug of the same rich colors sat in the center of the floor. As Nick stood in the doorway, he was alarmed by what he saw. The room of any seven year old girl should have been cluttered, full of life and vitality. Every little girl's room he'd seen had only been that. This room was just the opposite, though.

Home medical supplies took up much of the room's ample space. Positioned against the far right Caribbean blue wall was a home issued hospital bed, the head of which was raised to a near forty-five degree angle. The sheets matching the colors of the walls were the only brightness, the only emotional relief offered by the eye-sore that was the bed. Just to the right of the bed, positioned near the head, stood a metal IV stand. Hanging from the hooks were three empty medication pouches. From his position he could just make out their labels in the faint light; two labeled morphine the other, the largest of the three bags, a standard saline drip. A pink chest of drawers, positioned just inside and to the right of the door, sat alone against a lime green ocean. It was one of two pieces of furniture separating this room from those at Desert Palm. The top of the chest, however, was home to numerous prescription bottles. Nick counted six amber colored bottles, three different over-the-counter pain medications, and five bottles of various herbs, minerals, and vitamins. It seemed the family was trying anything and everything to bring comfort to their little girl.

The only window in the room was directly across from the door, a large picture window framed in a pink vastness, its view looking over the backyard. The lime green curtains had been strung open, allowing ample light to enter the room when the sun sat high in the sky. The bed had been meticulously placed so that Emily could easily be warmed by the rays as they filtered through the opened shades. Directly under the window sat a large purple foot locker, the same color as the wall to the left of the CSI. What was in that foot locker, he could only guess. He'd slowly make his way to it as he worked around the room in his search for evidence.

Questions ran through his head as he stood stock still in the doorway. His feet seemed unwilling to move, his brain, unable to quit running, seemed incapable of making them move. Mostly, though he felt scared, scared of disturbing what little sanctity there seemed to be left in the desecrated house, scared of finding the answers to the questions plaguing him, scared of discovering the fear Emily Harris must have experienced, but mostly scared that there was nothing he could do to help ease her suffering, to bring her peace.

Little by little, though, he mustered up the courage, the will power to get the job done.

First he'd print the door knob.

Maybe the killer had left his mark behind.

Nick bent down, picked up the field kit sitting by his feet, and slowly, carefully, took his first steps into the room. He popped open his kit and reached for his print powder and brush. Crouching to get a better angle at the doorknob he slowly applied the powder to the brass apparatus.

Shining his Maglite around the area he frowned.

A couple workable prints, a partial palm. It wasn't much and most likely belonged to the paramedics.

_Killer probably wore gloves._

After carefully tape lifting the prints, he stood.

He turned, now facing the prescription covered dresser top. Bending slightly, so the bottles were at eye level, he slowly scanned each bottle, reading each label, taking in the name of each drug; Arsenic Trioxide, All-trans retinoic acid (ATRA), Vicodin, Oxycontin.

"Bless her heart," he sighed, closing his eyes in disbelief.

The poor child must have been in excruciating pain. It was no way for a little girl to live.

Among the other bottles; iron supplements, calcium supplements, multivitamins. None of the bottles seemed to have been disturbed; nothing seemed inherently out of place. He snapped several photos of the drugs in their original positions, the flash of the camera filling the room with intermittent light, before bagging them for evidence.

Pulling out his Maglite again, Nick began training the light along the floor, his attention especially targeted to where the wall met the carpet, as he rounded the room making his way to the bed. The corners were dark, the small bedside lamp not providing much light with which to work.

He found himself by the bed before anything substantial or potentially probative caught his eye. The blue wall cast shadows in the dim light, but the spot was as clear as day on the white carpeting.

"What the…" he spoke to the empty room, his brow puckered as he crouched to the floor.

_Blood?_

Pulling out a cotton swab, he swabbed the near miniscule area. A drop of phenolphthalein to the cotton tip told the story.

"What the hell happened in here?" he voiced his question his eyes scanning the room once more. Carefully, he took photos of the bloodstain showcasing its relationship and orientation in the room. Pulling out his pocket knife, he carefully cut out the swatch of carpet, expertly containing the bloodstain for DNA comparison back at the lab.

Returning to his original standing position, he snapped more photos; first the empty IVs, then the position of the IV stand near the bed, as well as the rumpled condition of the bed, the sheets and blankets.

The blankets.

There were so many.

The sheets had been wadded up near the foot of the bed, the pillows discarded, thrown haphazardly to the floor. It was careless, a frantic, panicked action.

It was never an easy job, searching a child's room. It was disheartening; searching for evidence of foul play in a world as pure as that of a young child. It was cases like this that made him hate his job, but mostly hate the condition of humanity. Nothing made Nick angrier than finding the one thing he wished he'd never had to be faced with; evidence that a child had been harmed, evidence that a child was scared, was made to feel ashamed. Nothing weighed on him more than a victimized child.

It happened more times than he cared to think about. And more often than not it served as the one reason for questioning his line of work and his ability to do the job. And it seemed to be happening more frequently, too.

Reluctantly, he pulled his handheld ALS from his kit. Crossing the room, he flipped the light switch to its off position, pulled on his orange safety goggles, and crossed back over to the bed in a halo of blue light. Deliberately, carefully, he scanned every inch of the bed sheets, and though it felt like time was standing still, he'd easily finished his search within a couple minutes. Gratefully, he'd come up empty handed; there were no visible fluid stains on the sheets.

He kept the lights off, part laziness and not wanting to cross the room again, and partly because the light was of little to no use. Using his Maglite, a much more useful light source, he crouched next to the pillows and commenced his search under the bed. The white light filled the narrow space, the darkness becoming void.

Jackpot.

There as plain as day, caught in the beam of his light: a brown hair. Pulling out his tweezers, he carefully grasped the evidence, skillfully clenching the hair in the grips of the tool.

Had the killer come in here looking for the girl?

Had the paramedics gotten careless in their jobs, tainting anything probative?

There were so many damn questions. He couldn't make sense of the nonsense running chaotically in his brain. Nothing seemed to be coming from the pieces he was gathering. It was like working a puzzle without the picture on the box.

Taking a closer look at the hair in the teeth of his tweezers he couldn't help but offer a small smile. The follicular tag was still attached.

Opening an empty bindle, Nick secured the hair and labeled it for DNA.

He hoped it was enough to get a profile.

Double and even triple checking the space under the bed, he was satisfied that he'd gotten all there was to get.

Next on his list: the foot locker.

The deep purple matched the color of the opposite wall perfectly. Opening the trunk, he smiled. Inside he found dresses, scarves, hand made masks, puppets, and other theatrical necessities. Underneath it all he found pages and pages of hand written scripts.

_The Day Frog Prince Went to Town_, he read, _by Emily Harris_.

Many of the pages had been bound together, a real script. He smiled imagining the little girl putting on her own productions.

_The sun streamed in through the window at just the right angle. The stage had been set, the backdrop prepared and the characters set to go on. Emily sat, concealed by the puppet stage, hidden from the audience's view. Expertly she maneuvered the puppets onto the stage._

_She'd memorized every line, practiced them day in and day out preparing for opening night. She smiled as she heard her mother take in a breath and then laugh as the antics unfolded. She'd mastered each voice for each unique character. It had all been perfect._

_She'd worked hard at getting everything right. She knew her family would enjoy the show._

_When the curtain had drawn, the show over, she'd come around to greet her family, to thank them for attending. They applauded her, cheered her and promised a return for the next night's feature._

He slowly stood from the trunk, stretching his tired, overworked back muscles. He scanned the window frame with his light, not sure what he was looking for, and satisfied with the nothing that he found.

There was only one more place left to look. The closet.

Taking a deep breath, holding it and releasing it, he turned, walked the four and a half steps necessary and slowly opened the hinged closet doors. Walking into the deep closet, he was met with a massive puppet stage just to his left. Clothes hung on hangers just to his right, shoes were piled underneath the clothes on the hardwood floor. The shelves above were piled high with games, dolls, videos, and toys.

Now, _this_ was a seven-year-old's world.

Slowly, Nick's eyes trained over each object. He really wasn't expecting to find anything, but he wouldn't be satisfied without a thorough search. Carefully he shuffled through the hangers, his light trailing over each garment. He then stooped down, focusing his light on the pile of haphazardly thrown shoes he sorted through the footwear.

Standing, he began sifting through the games stacked high on the above shelves. Videos including _Disney_ animated films and _Rodgers and Hammerstein_ musicals lined the walls. Games including _Hi-Ho Cherry-oh_, _Chutes and Ladders_, _Mancala_, and _Chinese checkers_ piled high to the ceiling.

_There's nothing here,_ he sighed turning to leave the confined space. Once more, he took in the puppet stage.

Backdrops had been intricately painted and hung. Castles, streams, and green hills danced across the canvas.

"What?" Nick asked, tilting his head to the left.

Something was off.

Something wasn't right.

Something…something didn't _smell_ right.

Carefully he pulled the puppet stage out into the room and returned to the closet. Shining his light over the spot where the stage had just rested he crouched down working to get a closer look at the paneled wall. Reaching out, he felt the wall, the grooves from the panels. Something kept grabbing at the light. There was a void between the panels. He gently tapped the wall with his gloved knuckle.

Nothing unusual.

Choosing a second spot on the wall, he knocked again.

"That's odd," he said, his brow puckered at the unusual hollow sound that greeted his ears.

With a slight hesitation, he reached out with both arms feeling the panels. He pushed slightly, and was surprised to find, that with little effort on his part, the panels gave way.

"What the hell is going on here?"

Opening the crude door further, he recoiled at the odor; his eyes watering a he brought his right arm up to cover his nose. The stench filled his nostrils as the door freely swung open revealing a small crawl space.

Shining his light in, he was met with hollowness, emptiness, and darkness.

_It was dark; the only light came from the night light near her door. The sounds outside her door weren't normal, in fact they were scary. She could hear her mother crying, pleading. Her mom and dad never fought. _

_Her mom never cried._

_Slowly, she climbed out of bed. _

_Tiptoeing across the soft carpet, she reached for the doorknob. What she saw between the crack made by the door and the wall terrified her._

_She knew what to do. She knew where to go. _

"_If anything ever happens," her mother had said, "you hide. Be as quiet as you can and hide."_

_She didn't know what her mom meant when she'd said it, but she'd nodded her head, taking the words and converting them to memory. _

_And, so that's what she did. She had the perfect spot. Not even Hannah knew of her secret hideout. The space in her closet was just big enough for her. It was made especially for her._

_Quickly, quietly, she closed the closet doors behind her, crawled under her puppet stage and hid._

_She heard her door swing open, slamming against the wall. A squeak escaped her throat, as she used her hands to cover her mouth._

"_Emily!" cooed a voice. _

_It wasn't her dad's voice. _

_It wasn't her brother's voice. _

_It wasn't a nice voice. _

"_Come out, come out wherever you are."_

_She was cold, shivering uncontrollably now. She could see the light from her room streaming in through the cracks in the wall. _

"_Emily, I know your in here," the voice cooed in mock kindness._

_She heard her closet doors open, her eyes wide in fear taking in the faint light that filled the confined space. She held her breath. _

_He didn't know she was there._

_He left, defeated._

_She sat alone, then, consumed by the darkness rocking back and forth as she hugged her knees to her chest. Tears rolled silently down her cheeks._

Slowly, Nick pulled out his ALS and shone it around the small space. The wood floor lit up under the blue light. Bright yellow.

Urine.

"Bless her heart," he sighed shaking his head as he sat back on his haunches. Cautiously he swabbed the stain. He'd need a DNA match to confirm his theory.

Steadily, he rose. Collecting his electrostatic dust print lifter he set it up on the closet floor. He managed to collect two sets of prints. A bare print, a child's size three. Confirming his theory, he glanced at the pile of shoes.

"Emily was a size three," he nodded.

The second print looked to match the print he'd lifted from the master bedroom. He'd have to take a closer look to be sure.

Gathering his equipment, he slowly left the little girl's room, the colors haunting him, the remnants of a life yet to be lived.

"Hey," he said now standing in the doorway of the master suite.

"Find anything?" Grissom asked. He was still standing over the blood pools where the family had unceremoniously been laid to rest. The bodies had long since removed and taken to the morgue. A clipboard occupied the man's left hand, a pen grasped tightly in his right.

"I think I know why Emily Harris was spared," Nick nodded leaning against the door jam. "Found a crawl space in her closet. Also found a urine stain. I think she hid," he offered a one shoulder shrug. "I found a blood stain, and a hair. Also found some latent footprints in her closet, one set was the girl's, the other a male size 12. At first glance it matches the print I lifted from in here, but I won't know for sure till I put it under the scope."

"Good," the supervisor nodded.

"You find anything new?"

"Sometimes it's about what you _don't_ find. There's _no_ sign of a struggle," he shook his head his eyes focused back on the blood stains, "not _one_."

"How does an _entire_ family succumb to murder in their own house without so much as putting up a fight?" Nick asked.

"Maybe they knew the guy," Grissom shrugged as his cell phone chirped. "Grissom," he answered upon flipping the device open and bringing it to his ear.

"_Gil, its Catherine."_

"What'd you find out?" he asked casting a quick glance at the man in the door.

"_Acute Myelogenous Leukemia."_

"That's it?"

"_For now. I've got visitation restricted to law enforcement only. She's sleeping, so I'm headed your way now."_

"Good. We could use your hands. See you in a few," he flipped his phone closed.

"I'll get going on the other two rooms," Nick thrust a thumb over his shoulder. "Maybe we'll get lucky."

"Yeah," his boss nodded, his concentration back on the clipboard in his hands.

"Hey, Griss…" the younger criminalist hesitated pulling the man's attention fully on him. "The Collin's case…a few years ago…" he trailed off.

"I know," the man nodded in response. The similarities between the two cases were obvious and striking, but he prided himself in restricting any conclusions until all the evidence was gathered and processed.

This case would be no different…he hoped.

Silently, Nick turned his back on the room.

This case _wasn't_ different. A family was dead, and a little girl left to deal with it.

The hallway was dark, the doors to each room closed. The window, almost as small as a porthole on a ship, at the top of the stairs allowed a sliver of early morning light to careen through lighting up a small patch of carpet.

It was an odd scene, a haunting scene, even for him. The quicker he could get out of this house the better.

"_How does an entire family succumb to murder in their own house without so much as putting up a fight?"_

"_Maybe they knew the guy…"_

It was a simple answer, a simple assumption. And it was one of the most bone chilling responses he could have been given.

It scared him.

It made him scared for Emily.


	5. Sidelong View

**

* * *

****Chapter Five** – Sidelong View

* * *

The early morning air had grown cold; the dampness from the earlier rains was thick and heavy. It was that bone chilling cold that seeped deep into Sara Sidle, deep into her core. The black tee shirt she wore was of little help in the combat against the chill. Though, it wasn't just the change in weather bringing the onset of cold that seemed to seep in through every pore. It was something else, something darker, something more unsettling.

There was something about this scene, something about this house.

Too many things were off. Yet, too many things seemed so damn familiar.

She watched Greg saunter up the front path, the front door his first priority in the arduous task ahead of them. Carefully, her Maglite in hand, she made her way around the garage to the backyard, unlatching the gate to the privacy fence and letting it catch behind her. She hoped there would be some semblance of a clue in the confines that once served as the kid's playground.

The backyard itself was an open space. Lush grass, uncharacteristic for most of the greater Las Vegas area, covered the ground. A rather large oak tree stood vigil in the far left corner, its branches bare still from the mild winter. It looked desolate against the dark sky, the only real sign of potential life within the confines of the yard.

Slowly, deliberately she worked her way around the perimeter, her light inching across the fence paying special attention to the points where the fence met he yard. She was hoping to find anything leading her to a suspect, a getaway route…anything.

The landscaping of shrubs lining the fence was clean, well kept. There were no obvious signs of foul play. The fairly recent mulch was undisturbed, untouched. There was nothing.

The back of the house, much like the front, was rather plain, understated even for the size of the house. There were no shudders on the picture windows, no real form of decoration adorning the home. Sliding glass doors lead from the kitchen, near the center of the structure, to a decent sized concrete patio. A large chrome barbeque grill took up much of the concrete surface. Various cooking utensils hung toward the ground from the side slats of the grill; a two-pronged fork, a spatula, a wire brush.

"Every man's dream," Sara smirked, her light reflecting off the cooking machine.

The patio, playing stage to the lush, green yard, sat directly opposite a black iron picnic table and five matching chairs. The lawn furniture, which had been arranged front and center just off the patio, now sat abandoned, unused, unneeded. There would be no more family picnics in the backyard.

The rain had without a doubt washed away any evidence, were there to be any, on the outdoor furniture. But, still Sara took her time carefully looking over every square inch of the table and each chair. Water beads still clung to the metal surfaces, making her print powder an obsolete tool.

Slowly, shining her light on the path before her, she crossed the ten feet from the outdoor dining room to the back doors. Inside she could just make out Warrick's form moving about, rummaging through drawers deep in his own search for evidence.

Frustration mounted in what appeared to be a futile search of a clue. Nothing appeared disturbed, or out of place to her. Still, she stood mesmerized by the glass doors, and then the shrubs just to the right of the patio.

There was something amuck with the foliage.

Setting her kit on the concrete, she stooped for a closer look, shining her light on the vegetation. A smile crossed her face, her eyes lighting up as she gazed on the prize before her.

Carefully, using her tweezers, she plucked up the small piece of evidence.

A cigarette butt.

Curious, she brought the object to her nose.

"That's odd," she puckered her brow. Normally she would have expected the smell of burnt tobacco to be strong, to be recent. Normally she would have expected to smell the pungent odor of the nicotine, which had at one time seemed sweet and inviting to her but, now only served to turn her stomach.

Instead, she was met with nothing.

There was no smell.

She careened her light upward, her eyes following, landing on the second floor windows as they caught the light in the early morning dawn.

_Maybe one of the kids smoked?_

Reaching for a plastic evidence bag, she placed the cigarette within. Chances of getting an uncompromised DNA sample were slim, but it was worth taking the odds.

Slowly, she maneuvered her light around the landscaping, her eyes taking in each inch of dirt, each leaf, each twig. What she was looking for, she wasn't quite sure. But, as her light hit the second shrub, she felt the uneasy familiarity of earlier creep back into her, her gut twisting in knots.

Lightly, she knocked on the sliding door, grabbing Warrick's attention.

"What's up?" he asked easing the heavy glass door open.

"The Collin's case…you and Nick worked perimeter if I remember correctly," she said, her dark eyes lifted to catch his gaze.

"Yeah," he nodded leaning in the door jam. "_That_ was a while back."

"Nick found a cigarette butt and match, right?" she asked her eyes back on the evidence in her handheld tweezers.

"Yeah…" he trailed off. "What's up? You've got that look."

Her eyes narrowed into slits, concentration clouding her face, the evidence filling her eyes. "I've got that feeling."

"You too, huh? What'd you find?" he motioned with his head, his own light trained on the object in her hand.

"A cigarette and a match," she said bagging the second piece of evidence.

Warrick let out a long sigh. "Man, this whole crime scene…"

"Yeah," she nodded standing from her crouched position.

Silently, the CSIs stood in the dark, their minds racing through the possibilities.

"Hey, Sara!" Greg called from the side of the house. "I've got something you'd like to see."

Throwing a look at Warrick, she grabbed her kit and joined Greg around the house, her search of the backyard finished. The side of the house, much like the back, was lined by four evenly spaced shrubs, each neatly trimmed and well kept.

"Check it out," the young CSI smiled, his flashlight beam trained on the ground between the two center shrubs. "I think I know how the killer got into the house," he smirked, his light angled now to reflect off the window just at eye level.

The window was half open and the wet ground held two distinct footprints.

"Maybe," she nodded, a slight hesitation in her voice, as she shone her light, imitating Greg's motions, her light illuminating the muddy prints and then the window.

Like everything else, something was off.

Something wasn't right.

"It's a good find, Greg," she patted him on the shoulder hoping to give the man some encouragement. "Take photos, and then cast them, we'll need them. Did you get anything from the front?" she asked watching the man stoop to the ground his camera in hand.

"Nothing," he shook his head. "There was no sign of forced entry. I dusted every last inch of the door, the knob, the door knocker, the doorbell. Not a single print."

"Maybe the killer wore gloves," she shrugged.

"Still, it doesn't make sense," he shook his head again, the camera flashing in the dim early morning.

"I know what you mean," she nodded, her eyes falling on the scene of onlookers and media just across the street. Lights from the news cameras filled the dawn with artificial light. The murmur of voices belonging to reporters and concerned neighbors filled the air. She could just make out the form of Brass talking with some of the neighbors. "Nothing about this scene feels good."

"Does it ever?" Greg asked, his eyes meeting hers.

"I don't know," she shrugged. She stood silent, the sound of the clicking camera, the quick burst of light from the flashbulb filling her senses.

"Hey, Sara…what do you make of this?"

"What?" she knelt down.

"Check out the size of the impressions."

"I'd say male, size ten, maybe ten and a half."

"Check out how _shallow_ they are," he shook his head. "Wouldn't you expect them to be deeper…as muddy as it is?"

"Well, size ten, give or take, we can estimate the male to be between five-eleven and six foot?"

"About my height," he nodded.

"And at your weight, you leave a pretty hefty indentation in the mud," she smiled, her light trailing back in the yard, Greg's path to the window clear in the wet grass.

"Thanks," he smirked.

"I don't know, Greg, maybe," she shrugged, her light cast back on the prints in question. "You thinking this is a rouge?"

"I don't know," he shrugged his eye back in the viewfinder of his Nikon.

"Look, while you finish up here, I'm gonna go on in and give Warrick a hand."

"Yeah, okay," he nodded pulling out his casting frame and carefully placing it around the shoe impressions.

"Oh, and Greg?"

"Yeah."

"Be sure and print the windowsill while you're at it," she smiled as she rounded the corner of the house.

He knew that.

* * *

The sun was slowly beginning to let its presence be known, the first hints of morning peaking over the neighborhood houses. Catherine was pulling up to the scene as Sara made her way around to the front yard.

The females seemed to match each other, near mirror images in their solid black ensembles. Silver field kits hung to their sides, held firmly in each of their left hands. Meeting the other female, Sara offered a weary smile as they walked to front porch of the house together stopping to slip on shoe covers.

"Hey Cath," Warrick offered a nod of his head as he met them in the front foyer. He looked rather dapper in his celadon green shirt and jeans.

"Grissom upstairs?" she asked, a finger pointed in the direction her feet were already gracefully carrying her.

"Yeah, master bedroom," he nodded. "Sounds like he's got something right up your alley, too."

"You know _I_ love it," Catherine offered a half smile as she began her ascension.

"Where do you need me?" Sara asked.

"Well, I just finished the kitchen. There's a knife missing from the set on the counter," he led the way into the spacious room. "Other than that, the place has been wiped clean. There's not a single print."

"You're kidding," she said incredulously.

"Wipes and swirls," the man shook his head.

"Seems we're getting a lot of that."

"Man, this case is giving me a headache already," he ran the back of his gloved hand across his forehead.

"Have you done the family room?" she asked pointing down the three steps into the comfortable looking den.

"Headed there now."

"Care if I join?" she smiled.

"By all means."

Quietly, the two entered the spacious, homey room. The near rustic furnishings were comfortable, cozy, and obviously well used. The room was a far cry from the formal living room across the hall from the kitchen.

The wood paneled walls provided an almost country western feel to the room. Paintings of outdoor scenery lined the walls above the chocolate brown leather sofa on the far right wall, a large wooden barrel served as an end table. The hard wood floor sat decorated by a large rust orange braided rug.

"Damn," Warrick let out a low whistle. "This the same house?"

"Like walking into Cracker Barrel," Sara smiled as she crossed the room, her attention drawn by the entertainment center. The large cherry piece of furniture housed a massive wide screen flat panel TV. The shelves surrounding held the latest in DVD, VCR, Stereo, and Surround Sound equipment.

"What'd the husband do again?" she asked, her Maglite scanning the massive video collection shelved to the right of all the electronics.

"Stock broker, or something," Warrick replied, his attention drawn to the bookcases along the far wall and the numerous family photos lining them. "You getting anything?"

"Well, I've got a gigantic collection of home videos. _Hannah's dance recital_, _Emily in Cinderella_, _Nathan pitches first no-hitter_," she read off some of the labels.

"Gigantic, huh? Could be nothing," Warrick shrugged.

"Could be _something_," Sara countered. "I'll bag them."

"Yeah, you do that."

"Hey, _you_ wanted my help, remember? I'm just making sure all our bases are covered."

"I got ya," he smiled turning to face her. He watched as she pulled out a large brown paper sack and began filling it with the homemade VHS recordings. "I'll get Archie and look into them," he nodded finally as Sara finished the transfer of media from the shelves. "You ready for this?" he asked holding up the large ALS he'd carried in. Putting on a pair of orange safety glasses he cast his gaze toward the furniture.

"Let's do it," she smiled pulling out her own ALS subsequently slipping on a pair of safety glasses. Carefully, she crossed the room to flip the lights off.

The rustic room was thrust into a blue glow as the CSIs worked to gather anything that may link them to the killer, their forms ghostlike and eerie. While Sara began the excursion of processing the sofa, Warrick tackled the matching recliner.

"Damn," he whistled between his teeth. "Check it out. Hand me the Luminol," he said. Sara joined him at the piece of furniture, a bottle of Luminol in hand.

"You got something?" she asked handing over the chemical and watching as Warrick liberally sprayed the chair. "Th…_that's_ blood," she said, her eyes widening. "That's _a lot_ of blood."

Slowly, the chair illumined as the chemical fluoresced under the blue light. The once brown recliner now took on a ghastly fluorescent blue glow.

"What the hell…" Warrick trailed off removing the orange goggles. "Grab the camera."

Quickly Sara complied, snapping off several shots of the chair.

"What went on here?" she asked.

"This isn't even our primary scene," Warrick shook his head. "The family was killed upstairs."

"So, what… You think the killer, what…came down to watch the evening news after his little killing spree?"

"Stranger things have happened, I guess," Warrick shrugged throwing a sidelong view toward his partner.

"I guess," she shrugged. "Well, if there's blood on the chair, there's gotta be blood…"

"I'm all over it."

Warrick turned then and began spraying the chemical liberally over barrel beside the chair, the remote controls, and then the braided rug. Slowly the controls fluoresced, as did the rug, blood drops clearly present in the braided material.

"Any blood in the kitchen?" Sara asked snapping photos of the carpet.

"Trace amount in the sink drain, but hard to say if it's human. I found ground beef in the disposal," he shook his head. "Obviously the guy knew how to clean up after himself."

"Any chance this could be bleach?"

"Not from these patterns. Looks like a couple partial footprints here," Warrick shook his head.

Sara shrugged, "I still don't get it. How does an _entire_ family wind up murdered in their own home, without even putting up a fight?"

"That seems to be the question of the hour," Grissom interjected from the doorway.

"Hey, Griss," Warrick nodded, turning to find the supervisor standing in the slightly elevated doorway.

"I'm headed back to the lab. We need to get going on the evidence and I have autopsies to attend."

"Care to drop some evidence off to Archie?" he asked handing the paper bag full of videos over. "Found a home video collection."

"What are you thinking?" the supervisor asked.

"I don't know. There's no sign of a struggle, no sign of forced entry… Maybe they knew their killer."

"And if they knew their killer," Sara added, "maybe the family has him on tape."

"We'll see," Grissom nodded turning to leave.

"Oh, hey Griss," Warrick called out. "Sheriff's lookin' for ya."

There was no response as he watched the man walk out the door, only a wave of a hand over his shoulder.

"Yeah," Warrick smirked. "What a peach." He returned to the blood evidence, the braided rug his primary source of concern. "Well, bag those remotes, we'll have to test them for DNA. Maybe the killer got careless."

"Don't count on it," Sara sighed. "Wanna pack the rug up too? Blood trails all across it."

"Might as well," he nodded. "It's not that big."

"So, what's next?"

"Living room across the hall?"

"The formal room?"

"The formal room," he offered a half smile. People and their big-ass houses.

"I'll race ya," she returned the smile collecting her kit. They'd come back for the evidence once they'd finished everything.

"Hey guys," Greg smiled from the front door.

"Greggo, hop on the train," Warrick nodded. "We're about to process the living room."

"Uh...which one?" he asked passing his gaze between the two.

"This one," Warrick pointed to the room just left of the entryway.

"Got it," Greg nodded turning to take in the massive room. "You want the lights on or off?"

"Off," Warrick shook his head. "Probably won't find much either way."

It was nothing unusual for this house really, a large white room. The same beige carpet covering the stairs covered the floor. A long, white leather sofa lined the right wall flanked by two cherry end tables. Atop each table sat a tall crystal and marble lamp. A cherry coffee table sat front and center to the sofa, allowing just enough room to walk between the two. A large picture window looked out from behind white curtains allowing light to filter in aiding in the feeling of grandness. It filled most of the white wall opposite the leather furniture. Two matching white leather chairs bordered the glass. On the far wall, a large cherry bookcase reached from floor to ceiling. A library of books and framed photos boasted the families many interests in art, history, and drama.

School books covered the top of the coffee table.

"Looks like Hannah was studying anatomy," Sara looked over the text left open.

"How can you tell?" Greg asked as he shone his light over the photos on the wall above the couch.

"Her handwriting," Sara turned to take in the bookshelves. "Plus she's got a massive crush on some guy named Chris."

"The family loved books," Warrick let out a long breath. "I'll get started on fingerprinting."

"Don't count on much."

"Why don't you cover the sofa and coffee table? We may get lucky. Greg take those chairs," he pointed across the room.

The three worked the living room over in silence. They worked best like that. Minutes seemed to stand still, the increasing light outside the window their only way of know time was passing.

"Hannah appears to have been the only one in here," Sara stood from the coffee table, "I'm only getting one set of prints."

"How do you know their hers?"

"Just a guess," she shrugged. "But I _did_ find this long black hair," she smiled holding a set of tweezers in her hand. "The mom had blonde hair, so did Nathan. This hair is too long to be Emily's or the dad's."

"Well, I've got a cocktail of prints over here."

"You get anything else?"

"Besides black lung from all this powder? Nah," he shook his head. "There's nothing here."

He could feel the case spinning away from them. Things were quickly going nowhere.

"I've got a couple blonde hairs, but…" Greg shrugged stuffing the bindles in his kit.

They were all getting that feeling. They weren't going to get lucky with this case. The answers were elusive, were damn near invisible. Whoever they were looking for knew how to stay hidden. Whoever they were looking for was smart. And no matter how hard they tried to talk themselves around it, no matter how many different ways they twisted the scene, twisted their own logic, twisted their own search for clues, they were all scared of the same thing. They were all terrified that this guy may be smarter than they.


	6. Wallpaper Personalities

**Note:** thanks for sticking with this...a few more crime scene chapters...things are starting to roll. Thanks for the reviews...hope I hit all of you with a reply...if not sorry...I get ya next time: )

* * *

**Chapter Six** – Wallpaper Personalities

* * *

Nick had been standing in the bedroom of Nathan Harris for nearly a half hour, his eyes slowly taking in everything, when he felt someone behind him. Turning, he saw Catherine standing in the doorway, a look of concern and wonder on her face.

"Hey Cath," he nodded offering his best smile of reassurance. "Griss is down the hall," he pointed with a gloved hand.

"Yeah, you alright?"

"Yeah, fine," he nodded turning back to the bedroom.

It hadn't really been a lie. He _was_ fine…for the most part.

In all honesty? Standing in Nathan Harris' bedroom was like stepping into an alternate dimension, like stepping back in time. Standing in the center of the kid's room was like returning to his childhood room back in Texas. It was like he was back in high school again. Baseball trophies lined the shelves along the wall, college pennants adorned his closet doors, and a massive poster, an aerial shot of Wrigley Field at night, took up much of the wall just above his computer desk.

Dark green gingham wallpaper gave the room a plain, yet masculine feel. A twin bed sat tucked back in the far left corner of the room, just under the large window overlooking the front yard. A dark green comforter lay undisturbed, un-messed, over plain white sheets. A large cork board adorned the wall just above the bed of which news clippings, photos, and sports statistics covered every square inch.

Just to the left of the door, a computer desk sat against the wall; it took up just a little more wall space than the poster hung over it. Text books cluttered the top of the cherry furniture;_ Physics, Calculus, English Lit_. They sat next to a rather impressive looking laptop computer.

It seemed as good a place to start as any, Nick thought as he turned and began sifting through the drawers. Opening the center drawer he found a stack of college acceptance letters, a letter from UNLV topping the pile. From the looks of things, Nathan had been accepted to every major university on the west coast, recruited heavily by the baseball teams at UNLV, UCLA, Stanford, and Berkley. From the presentation of paraphernalia around the room, it was clear the boy was leaning heavily toward UCLA.

Continuing his search of the desk there seemed to be no sign that anyone other than Nathan Harris had been at the desk, let alone inside the room. Hell, there was little evidence that even _he_ had been in his room within the past twelve hours. A black messenger bag sat haphazardly discarded on the floor against the desk chair. Crouching down to get a closer look, Nick found two notebooks; one labeled _Physics_, the other _English Lit_, and a video iPod.

Returning to an upright position, he reached for his cell phone dialing a number he knew by heart.

"_A/V Lab,"_ came to voice of Archie Johnson, the lab's resident computer nerd.

"Archie, its Nick. Look, I've got a video iPod and a Dell Notebook."

"_I've got time."_

"Glad to hear it," Nick allowed the smile to come through in his voice. "I've still got a room and a half to process. I'll have it to you in a couple hours."

"_Great, see ya then."_

Nick closed the call and resumed his search.

"Finding anything?" Grissom asked from the doorway.

Nick turned to face his boss. "Man, the kid's room is cleaner than any teenager's room I've ever seen. I mean, I've got some college acceptance letters, the kid's homework…but, the room's clean, not even a porn magazine under the bed. There's nothing probative to our investigation so far," he shrugged. "I'm taking in his computer and iPod for Archie, but other than that… I was about to ALS and then move on to the sister's room."

"Okay. Catherine's taking over for me. She's in the master bedroom," the man pointed over his shoulder. "I'm headed back to the lab."

"Yeah, okay," Nick nodded putting on his orange safety glasses and reaching for the light switch. The corners of Grissom's mouth curled upward as he reached in closing the door behind him. There was always a determination, a dedication bestowed by the CSI. There was a drive, something special behind his ability to do his job. It was rarely any different from case to case. But as Grissom descended the stairs, he couldn't help but feel, to _know_ that this case was different. On so many levels this case was different. This case was special.

The blue of the ALS filled the room, the beige carpet taking on a bright white glow. Nick crossed the room, carefully examining the bed and the surrounding area. Taking the better part of thirty minutes, he scanned every inch of the bed and carpet, looking for the slightest hint of…anything.

Other than a few predictable stains on the bed sheets, he came up empty handed. But, serving his awareness to the case and warranting all suspicions, he bagged the sheets for DNA analysis. Always better to be safe than sorry.

Frustration or relief, he wasn't sure what he was feeling as he stood from his knees and began gathering his gear.

There was one more room for him to process.

Exiting Nathan's bedroom he glanced down the hall and slowly headed toward the parent's bedroom. Catherine stood in the dark, her light scanning the wall.

"The walls talking?" he asked leaning on the door jam.

"Have you checked out this spatter?" she asked with excitement in her voice, the life in her eyes renewed and on fire.

"Yeah," he nodded solemnly. "Did Grissom share his photos with you?"

"Got 'em here," she nodded patting the digital camera that hung around her neck.

"So, what are you thinking?"

"Well, check this out. Most of this is arterial spray, but this…this isn't," she trailed off, her hands sweeping over the area of focus. The blood stains sat about five feet from the floor. "This is cast-off. Whatever happened, it was violent, brutal," she shook her head turning to face the room.

"Murder usually is," Nick nodded turning to make his way down the hall. "Hey, Grissom tackled the bathrooms right?" he turned back.

"He was finishing this one when I got here," she nodded. "He left you the one in the hall."

"Perfect," he nodded pulling out his cell phone once more. "Did he find anything?"

"Blood in the wash basin."

"Substantial amount?"

"Only trace," she shook her head.

"Killer tried to clean up?" Nick asked with an arched eyebrow.

"Hell of a job he did," Catherine smirked. "Found bleach in the drains."

"Yeah," Nick nodded turning from the room. Flipping open his cell he dialed another familiar number.

"_This is Greg."_

"Greggo!" Nick chided with forced enthusiasm. "You about finished down there?" he asked leaning over the banister at the top of the stairs.

"_Just now, why?"_

"I've got a job for you. Come on upstairs," he closed the connection.

Within seconds Greg was standing with Nick, field kit in hand, in front of the hallway bathroom presumed to be shared by the three Harris children.

"I _have_ processed a bathroom before," Greg smiled reassuringly accepting Nick's instruction.

"I know that," Nick raised a defensive hand. "Just help me out, will ya?" he smiled slapping the younger man on the shoulder. "I'll be in the sister's room if you need me."

"Yeah, okay."

The bathroom was like any ordinary bathroom multiplied by three. The thing was huge.

Switching on the light, Greg was met with a stark white room, white tiles glistening under the overhead light both on the walls and the floor.

"Now, _this_ is a bathroom," he whistled between his teeth. His entire apartment could most likely fit inside the massive Jacuzzi alone.

Standing in the doorway he let his eyes scan the room before snapping photos. Just to the left of the door, a triple sink lined the wall. A wall length mirror hung from the ceiling to the top of the counter, efficiently adding to the already spacious feel of the room. The Formica countertops were bright white, and at first glance pristine; Greg would run the ALS over them for any chances of finding trace or DNA.

Just beyond the sinks, between the counter and the toilet, there was a tall cabinet. White like the rest of the bathroom, Greg found the bottom shelves to be piled with towels and wash cloths.

_Easy access for Emily,_ he smiled

The remaining shelves were filled with basic bathroom accoutrements; hair brushes, hair ties, barrettes, toothpaste, face wash, soaps, lotions, and razors.

The bathtub/Jacuzzi took up much of the rest of the room. A shelf built into the tile wall displayed numerous toys and shower accessories; shampoo, conditioner, body wash, and soap.

Greg smiled as his eyes fell upon a set of soap crayons similar to the ones he remembered playing with as a kid. His mom had done anything and everything to get him clean. He used to _hate_ taking baths.

Turning back to the sink he stooped to take in the cabinets under each sink. Extra soap, extra shampoo, feminine hygiene products, and a trash can. There was nothing out of the ordinary about this bathroom.

Taking his Maglite he began his second layer of the search process, DNA evidence would be needed. It would be torture trying to distinctly match DNA, weeding out any unrelated strains, but thankfully that wasn't his job anymore. He just had to gather the evidence and then heap the burning coals onto the head of Wendy Simms.

As he'd expected, there were several hairs on the countertops and floor. A few even had follicular tags still attached. A couple blonde, a couple black. Chances were they belonged to the kids.

"Good luck, Wendy," he smiled to himself as he bagged the hairs for DNA analysis.

Offering a sigh of resignation, Greg shut the bathroom door, closing himself in the room, and shut off the light while at the same time turning on his ALS. He'd always been confused by Grissom's fascination with Formica and tile surfaces, but as his blue fluorescent light began to scan the white surfaces, he was given overt clarity and answers to all of his questions. The surfaces really _were_ remarkable for holding stains.

Many of the stains proved to be of little interest. The few stains of blood attracted much of Greg's attention. Though the samples were minimal, nothing overtly suspicious, he swabbed them and took it into evidence.

Making his way to the toilet, he searched the tank, the bowl and the surrounding area. Besides a few urine and semen stains, all of which he swabbed for comparison, he came up empty. His search of the bathtub resulted in much the same.

Satisfied with the job that had already taken him the better part of an hour, Greg switched the lights back on and began the painstaking task of fingerprinting the countertops, faucets, doorknobs, and anything else the killer may have touched were he to have entered the bathroom. Within minutes he had several workable prints, many of which clearly belonged to Emily Harris. He _did,_ however, find a few decent adult prints, and would take prints from both parents in order to make a comparison.

Finishing his tape lifts, he proceeded by bagging a few more items for DNA. Starting with the toothbrushes, placing them in individual bags, he also collected hairbrushes and razors. Nothing like being thorough.

"The bathroom's clean," he stopped outside Hannah's room upon exiting the bathroom.

"Okay, thanks Greg."

"No, I mean…the bathroom's _really_ _clean_. I've never _seen_ a bathroom that clean before. I mean, I got a few samples for DNA and a few fingerprints, but man that was _one sterile bathroom_."

"Well, the little girl has Leukemia, Greg, maybe they kept it that way on purpose," Nick shrugged.

"Maybe," Greg nodded. "So, you finding anything useful in here?"

"Not much. I found a journal on the bedside table. That's about it so far. I was just about to ALS, mind hitting the lights?"

"Sure," he nodded turning the lights off as he stepped in to close the door. "Looks like she was into ballet," he noted the poster of a Prima ballerina above the girl's bed.

"Yeah," Nick nodded as he commenced his search over the bed. "Found an acceptance letter to Julliard on her desk. She was supposed to enroll in the fall. I found a calendar, too. Looked like she was taking classes three times a week."

"Did she have a class last night?"

"Modern dance from four to seven," Nick nodded, his attention drawn to the sheets at the foot of the bed.

"What have you got?"

"Blood," Nick thrust out his right hand. "Hand me a swab."

Greg crossed the room, curious. "It's a trace amount, could have come from anyone," Greg shrugged. "I mean, the girl _was_ a dancer. I'm sure she got injured her fair share of times. I dated a girl once, a dancer," he started his story, Nick's attention now focused on him. "She was a Pointe dancer, you know the ballerinas that dance on their toes? See, they use special ballet shoes that have hard blocks at the toe to give the dancer support and balance. Anyway, this girl used to practice so hard her toes would get bloody and blistered. She'd come over after rehearsals and want me to massage her feet," he cringed at the memory. "It was _really_ gross."

"This coming from the guy who took samples of DNA from his dates. I had no idea you were so well versed in the art of ballet, Greg," Nick smiled, as he stood upright upon collecting his sample.

"I'm just full of surprises. Anyway, I'm just saying," he shrugged self-consciously, "the blood could be from the victim practicing so much. I mean she _was_ accepted into the countries best dance school, she has a dance bar in her room for Christ's sake," he motioned toward the apparatus. "Obviously she's dedicated."

"Yeah," Nick nodded, his own eyes falling on the dance equipment. "Well, we won't know it's our vic's blood until we run comparisons," he shrugged labeling the blood sample and securing the evidence.

The two CSIs stood silent in the girl's bedroom.

The sunshine yellow walls held little information, yet screamed with the girl's life. The room itself, though fairly orderly, was typical of a teenage girl. A ballet bar lined the far wall just under the large picture window looking over the back yard. The girl's queen-size bed sat snug against the right wall, just to the right of the door. The deep navy blue comforter spread across the bed added just enough contrast to the brightly lit room. A matching footlocker sat at the foot of the bed. Inside Nick had found dance leotards, dance shoes, and several dance magazines.

The room layout was identical to Emily's bedroom, though the personalities of each child were evident in their own unique ways. Like writing on the walls.

"Did you check the closet?" Greg asked.

"First thing," Nick nodded placing his hands on his hips. "Nothing probative," he continued shaking his head as his eyes fell upon the closed closet doors. When closed, a stenciled image of a crescent moon and three stars appeared on the white hinged doors. The characters were painted the same navy blue as the bed cover and footlocker. It was that image on which Nick's eyes rested now.

"What?" Greg asked, his gaze following Nick's.

"Nothing," he shook his head. It wasn't right, teenagers becoming victims, children meeting an untimely end to life. There were just so many things wrong with him standing there, at that moment, in Hannah's room, in the Harris's home.

Slowly, he collected his gear, bagging the bed sheets, Hannah's journal and date book.

"So, what now?" Greg asked stooping to pick up his own field kit and following Nick into the hall.

"Hey, Cath you done in there?" Nick called down the hall. "For now," she nodded exiting the room. The three CSIs filed down the stairs, joining Warrick and Sara in the front foyer.

"So, where are we?" Warrick asked his camera still in hand.

"Well, the bedrooms upstairs, minus the primary scene, didn't give us much," Nick shrugged. "I've got a few samples to run through DNA, a few hairs, some latent prints. That's about it. You guys come up with much?"

"Sara and I just finished processing the family rooms," the tall CSI nodded.

"Found blood on the floor and in the recliner," Sara chimed in.

"I've still got the father's office and garage to process," Warrick sighed.

"Well, I need to get back to the lab," Catherine spoke up.

"I'll ride with you," Sara nodded, obviously keen on the idea. "I want to get rolling on the cigarette I found in the backyard."

"Cigarette?" Nick asked, his mind immediately flashing back to the Collins case.

"Yeah, I know," Sara nodded recognizing immediately the look in Nick's eye.

Greg nodded in consensus with the females. "Yeah, I want to get DNA running on the kids."

"Well, I'll stay back and help Warrick," Nick shook the previous thoughts from his head as the other three began to gather the collected evidence and file out the front door. He quickly helped Warrick carry the den rug to the Denali.

The sun had been up for nearly two hours, the clock in the hallway chimed telling them it was nearing the nine o'clock hour. Nick and Warrick stood on the front porch watching the SUV pull away. They'd already been on the scene over six hours.

From the looks of things it promised to be a beautiful day. The clouds had cleared, giving way to a deep blue sky. The crowds had long since dwindled, the media had moved on, perhaps even now hovering just outside the lab waiting for any report that may leak out. Parents were now busy getting their kids off to daycare or school and were heading to work themselves.

Life went on, after all.

"Ready for this?" Warrick asked putting a new roll of film into his camera.

Nick nodded turning to follow his partner back inside. Silently he crossed the threshold, closing the door behind him, "Let's roll."


	7. Cold Case

**Note:** okay...a wee bit shorter than the last...I'll allow a few words to a quick note. Sorry I didn't get replies out for the last chapter! I appreciated them all...really! I'll do better this next time around...try to stay on top of things! So...hope you enjoy the next chapter...pacing is going well I hope...and...well...for now there's more questions than answers...so goes the CSI storyline...stick with me...answers are coming!

* * *

**Chapter Seven** – Cold Case

* * *

Quiet. 

It was calming, peaceful and relaxing. It was everything that Gil Grissom wasn't. Tonight the silence was unnerving, anything but relaxing. And tonight the silence was all around him, everywhere, threatening to smother him. And as Grissom found himself headed toward perhaps the quietest room in the entire lab complex, he found himself dreading it more than a meeting with Ecklie or the sheriff.

The morgue was a cold room. Though quiet and at times peaceful in its own regard, there was always an uneasiness that settled around the shift supervisor as he entered the room. It was that unsettled feeling that haunted him now, that swam in the pit of his stomach, as he walked through the connecting corridors headed for his meeting with Dr. Albert Robbins.

Before getting a page that the medical examiner had finished his preliminary reports on the Harris family, Grissom had busied himself with a matter that seemed to be weighing heavily on the shoulders of the entire graveyard team. The familiarity of the current case was haunting, and hadn't gone unnoticed by anyone. In fact, short of dropping off the home videos to Archie, evidence lock-up had been Grissom's first stop upon returning from the field. Pulling out evidence as well as crime scene photos and trial records from the now closed case, Grissom locked himself in his office to bury himself in the well known case from over five years ago.

The Collins case had been high profile, arguably the biggest case of his career up to that point; a family brutally murdered in their own home usually was. The two daughters, Brenda and Tina Collins, had been the only ones to survive the massacre. Their parents and two brothers hadn't been as lucky. It had been through further investigation that Grissom had learned the dark truth, the deep seeded history of child abuse starting with Tina, the eldest, and continuing on to her younger sister, whom, he'd learned, to really be her daughter. And then there was the eldest daughter's plot to kill her family, a last ditch effort, a desperate attempt to end the abuse, the suffering.

Grissom had just settled into his office, had just gotten into the crime scene photos when his pager interrupted him. Doc Robbins had finished sooner than he'd expected.

Pulling on a powder blue lab coat and a pair of latex gloves, Grissom entered the morgue, a sense of urgency in his demeanor. He shuffled across the room as he pulled on a protective breathing barrier, joining the coroner at the first of three metal examining tables.

"It's haunting, isn't it?" the ME asked, his eyes drilling into the CSI's. The doctor standing only a few inches shorter than Grissom stood on the opposite side of the metal autopsy table. The handsome older gent wore a light blue smock over his slightly uncharacteristic suit of blue scrubs. His salt and pepper flecked beard was well trimmed, as was his gray hair. The man's metal crutch, a necessary accessory following a tragic car accident, sat propped against the autopsy table. Frank Harris' body lay on the metal slab.

"What is?" Grissom asked, a slight confusion showing through in his eyes, the only feature visible on the man's face.

"A family of four murdered in their own home."

"Seems to be a consensual feeling. Cause of death?" Grissom asked the irritation and urgency punching through in his voice.

"Exsanguination. The killer knew what he was doing," the coroner stated, getting down to business. "He bled out."

"All four of them?"

"All four of them," the coroner nodded. "The cuts were deep and clean. Carotid arteries were severed in each victim," he pointed to the father's throat. "From the looks of things, the killer cut from the front, from left to right, at an upward angle. He watched them, looked them in the eyes as he did it."

"What about these bruises?" Grissom's eyes fell to the father's face. The body had taken on a ghastly white tent, the massive loss of blood evident. Dark bruises covered the man's face, specifically heavy around the man's eyes and jaw.

"I can't say for sure. I _can_ tell you they occurred peri-mortem. He was hit several times, with what…I don't know. I'll know more once I post."

"Any defensive wounds?"

"I found several abrasions on his hands and forearms. He didn't go without a fight. I took fingernail scrapings on all of them, sent them to DNA."

"What about the others?" Grissom asked his eyes traveling to the metal table behind the coroner. There he found the body of Diane Harris.

"COD is the same on all victims. There was evidence of sexual trauma in both the mother and daughter. I'll run rape kits on both and send them to DNA."

Grissom nodded, his eyes glued to the victim.

"I did find something unusual on the boy," the coroner motioned for Grissom to follow across the room. Pulling open the second cupboard from the right, he carefully slid out the metal table. The body of Nathan Harris lay under a single white sheet. Grasping a metal pan, he handed it to Grissom. "I found traces of this material in his mouth. I wasn't sure what to make of it."

Carefully, Grissom picked up a pair of tweezers from a nearby tray and used them to pick up the trace evidence.

"Looks like some kind of polymer," he squinted his eyes in concentration as they took in the minute piece of black material. "Could be leather. We assumed the killer wore gloves. I'll get it to Hodges."

"I also noticed several of the boy's teeth had been chipped."

"Perhaps he was hit in the mouth," Grissom asked his eyes scanning the bruised face of the teenager. The markings were nearly identical to those on the father's face. They had endured an obvious painful ordeal, tortured before they were killed. It was a new twist on an old case. It made things personal.

"Well, he was hit hard enough to bite a large chunk out of his tongue," the ME informed pulling out the victim's tongue to show the extent of the injury.

"I'll need DNA samples from each victim for comparisons," Grissom nodded.

"Already sent them to the lab," the coroner nodded. He watched as Grissom turned to leave the room, the trace evidence in hand. "Gil, the victims' clothing," he pointed to the counter near the door. Lying atop the counter were plastic bags labeled for each victim. Inside were the clothes in which they had been killed. They were evidence now. "I heard the little girl wasn't hurt," the medical examiner added just as Grissom reached the double swinging doors.

Grissom nodded solemnly. "She was taken to the hospital. She's a cancer patient."

"What do you think the killer was after?"

Grissom shook his head, his face unusually downcast, "Her."

"Do me a favor, Gil. Catch the bastard."

Offering a weak smile and a nod Grissom put his hand on the door, "Page me when you're ready to post," he said as he left the room.

The halls were quiet as he made his way back to CSI. Once peaceful and enjoyable, the quiet seemed to plague him. Walking to trace, the victims' clothing in one hand, the trace material from Nathan Harris' teeth in the other, an involuntary shudder wracked his body. A chill traveled the length of his spine, the cold sweeping over his body. The case was laughing at him, mocking him and his feelings of helplessness and sense of loss.

"Hey boss," David Hodges smiled, his brown eyes unusually bright, as the supervisor entered the lab. The man looked rather trim in his navy blue lab coat, a white shirt with navy blue pinstripes accenting the man's appearance. "I heard about the case. Rough one. You know it's like that case from a few years back, too. Creepy huh? I mean, I know I wasn't here, but…"

"Hodges! I have some unknown trace elements found in the victim's mouth. I think it may be part of a glove the killer may have worn," the entomologist nearly grimaced at the overt eagerness of the lab tech. Something about the man really made his skin crawl. "Swab it for DNA and identify the polymer."

"You got it," the tech nodded. "It's on the top of my list."

"Oh and Hodges," Grissom stopped just short of the door. "It's going to be a full night. My guys will be rolling in any minute with a weeks worth of trace. Everything for this case gets first priority, no exceptions."

"You got it, boss," the tech nodded, strictly business.

The solitude of his office beckoned him, the case file that lay open on his desk called his name, begging him to review it. Stopping briefly in the break room, he filled his coffee mug and made a beeline for the dark inviting space.

He was stopped just short as Sara, Greg, and Catherine came trudging down the hall, their arms loaded with evidence.

"Where are Nick and Warrick?" he asked standing in the middle of the hall.

"They stayed back at the house. Warrick still had a couple rooms to process. Nick stuck around to help him," Sara informed as she joined the huddle around the boss.

"What'd you guys find?"

"Not a lot," Catherine sighed.

"I got a couple workable prints from the yard, some fingerprints from the side window, and some trace elements for DNA from the upstairs bathroom," Greg listed off.

"I've got a cigarette butt from the backyard," Sara added. "I'm on my way to DNA now."

"Okay, I've got the victim's clothes. Get started on them once you finish with DNA," he handed off the bags. "And let me know when Nick and Warrick get back. We need to bump heads, see where we are," the boss nodded watching his CSIs head off on their own missions, Sara to DNA, Catherine to her office, and Greg to the morgue for fingerprints.

His mission?

The old Collins case.

His office, dim lighting, jarred insects and experiments, and entomology library, was energizing and comfortable. He was at home within his semi-private space. It was in this space he was most able to reflect on the shift, the case at hand. It was what he enjoyed the most about his job, the time to solve the puzzle, to analyze it, put it all together.

The Harris's, murdered in their home, possibly by someone they knew, struck too many chords within harmony of the Collins case. He'd noticed it right off the bat, when he and Nick had arrived on the scene. He knew the media would pick up on it and he'd be damned if he would let the wildfire of gossip spread on something like this. The family deserved better than that. Emily Harris deserved better than that.

The photos from the Collins' home: the father laying in the hallway, the mother in bed, the teenage boys in their room. They'd all been killed in the dead of night. The similarities between the two cases were as clear as day. The MOs were different, but Grissom knew it to be customary for a killer to change, to become creative, when desperate. And to do something this atrocious, one _had_ to be desperate.

Still, there was something off about the Harris case.

"_This isn't butter. This is imitation."_ The words rang in his ears. The Manson murders. He remembered thinking the Collins case was related, was maybe even cult related. It hadn't been either. It had been Tina Collins and her boyfriend, working to throw the police off their trail.

Was the Harris case any different?

Or was it the same?

Was someone working to throw them off the case?

Could it be the _same_ person?

"Gil," a voice came from his once closed office door. Sheriff McKeene stood pristine in a crisp black suit, white shirt, and solid gray tie. His silver hair was cut short, and combed neatly. There was no evidence the man had just spent several hours outside the scene of a quadruple homicide.

"Sheriff," Grissom snapped abruptly from his thoughts. "Sorry. Did you knock?"

"Twice," the older man nodded entering the office and taking a seat opposite the CSI. He'd only been Sheriff of Clark County for eight months, but already he was comfortable and getting quite good at the political games. "I looked for you at the crime scene."

"Sorry, there was a lot to be done, and I needed to get back for the autopsies."

"Tell me you've got some leads," the man sat back in his chair crossing his right leg over the left.

"I wish I could," Grissom sighed removing his reading glasses, letting them hang loosely in the grip of his forefinger and thumb as he leaned back in his own chair. "The evidence is still coming in. We're just starting to process now."

"Come on, Gil. You saw the scene. What are your thoughts?"

"What, so you can inform the media? It's too early for me to say. Without the evidence…" he trailed off.

"Gil, you should know me better than that by now, and you know as well as I that the media will be _all_ _over_ this case. Hell, they already are. You remember the Collins case. I may not have been sheriff at the time, but the case still resonates. What are your thoughts?"

Grissom leaned forward in his chair, his arms resting, now, on the top of his desk. "Right now? I don't _have_ any thoughts. I'm looking over the Collins case as we speak," he motioned to the open file. "Like I said, once I get all the evidence in we can start piecing things together, but not until then. You've known me long enough now Sheriff to know that."

"So you're giving me nothing?" the sheriff asked.

"I'm giving you everything we've got," Grissom offered a resigned shrug. "As soon as I know something, _you'll_ know something."

"Do me a favor, Gil," McKeene sighed as he stood from his seat. "Protect that little girl. And catch the son of a bitch that did this to her family."

"My team's on it," Grissom nodded as he watched the man exit his office.

With nothing of which to work with, only an old case, Grissom felt the hole he was in widening, threatening to engulf him and swallow him whole. Though it was still early in the investigation, he felt his frustration mounting. The number of questions facing him was unreal and the answers were so far elusive and damn near non-existent.

Reaching for the phone on his desk he quickly punched in Brass's number.

He answered on the third ring. _"Captain Brass."_

"Jim, its Gil. Any witnesses?

"_One neighbor said they talked to Mrs. Harris last night. She'd just gotten home from the grocery store. Mrs. Harris was in a hurry to have dinner ready by seven. They were expecting company, but she didn't say who."_

"Okay, we're meeting in an hour for lunch. I'll want a progress report."

"_I'll be there with bells on,"_ the detective responded.

"See you then," he clicked off.

Grissom turned a scowl toward the forgotten cup of coffee he'd poured nearly an hour ago. The black brew had long since turned cold and grimy. Looking back at the old crime scene photos, he sighed. He had one more phone call to make.

"_Stokes,"_ Nick answered on the second ring.

"Nick, Grissom. Any progress?"

"_Oh sure, but not the kind you're looking for."_ He sounded frustrated. _"We've scoured the garage, and let me tell you, I've never seen a garage so…clean before. The damn thing is practically spotless, not even an oil stain on the floor."_

"Any reagents used?"

"_We phenoled the hell out of it. If there was blood before, there's not now. We've arranged to have the cars towed back to the lab, but chances of finding anything…"_ he trailed off.

"Okay. You think you guys can be back in an hour?"

"_Yeah. We've got the father's office to finish up, and we'll be in."_

"Good, see you then."

"_Hey, Griss. You getting the same kind of feeling we're getting here?"_ he asked before the man had a chance to end the call.

"What kind of feeling is that, Nick?"

"_Ice cold."_

It had been a haunting morning. The cold feeling of dread, the cold feeling of dead ends, and the cold feeling of mounting questions all weighed on the CSI's shoulders. It was a feeling he hated, a feeling he wasn't used to having.

He was helpless to do anything about it.

"I'll see you in an hour," he closed the call.

Helplessness didn't come easy to him. He fought it off, ran scared when the feeling so much as looked his way. But now, this case was smacking him across the face. The feeling was bearing down on him, mocking his skills as a criminalist. Now, he was helpless, truly helpless, and that scared the hell out of him.


	8. Chaotic Remission

**

* * *

****Chapter Eight** – Chaotic Remission

* * *

"Griss wants us back in an hour," Nick said closing his phone. From the way things had progressed thus far, wanting things done in an hour was not a far fetched goal. Evidence wasn't exactly popping out at them. It seemed the killer had, for all intents and purposes, successfully covered his trail. It made their job of collecting evidence rather easy, their time spent at the scene usually shorter. But everything about this case, this house, seemed to require just a little extra. Extra effort, extra time, extra energy.

Now, as Nick and Warrick stood in the doorway of Frank Harris's study they felt the hour slipping away. An hour _had_ seemed like a reasonable goal

The room was handsome, masculine, and it sat choked and hidden under a mad chaos. The two criminalists stood shocked by the sight that was conveyed before them. Solid oak furnishings and a deep green leather sofa took up much of the room's space. The solid cream colored walls were accented neatly with wallpaper bordering, displaying mallard ducks, along the top of the wall. A large leather sofa lined the wall just to the left of the door, the cushions of which had been upturned or simply thrown to the floor.

A large, rather impressive, desk sat slightly skew of front and center in middle of the room, back dropped by a wide picture window overlooking the backyard. A high backed leather chair, matching the color of the sofa, sure to have sat behind the desk at one point, had been pushed into the far back corner of the room. The desk drawers had subsequently been removed from their proper places within the desk, their contents dumped atop the desk, and haphazardly discarded to the floor.

The high gloss stain of the solid wood floor was sure to have given the room an elegant feel, yet was now hidden under a mess of dumped books and discarded papers.

Large, solid oak bookshelves lining the wall just to the right of the door sat half emptied. Books, of varying subjects, that had once lined the shelves were now piled high on the floor.

"Damn," Warrick shook his head, his brow furrowed in a slight state of shock. "Somethin' nasty went down in here."

"Mmm," Nick nodded his eyes taking in the same carnage. "Wonder _what_ exactly."

"Griss said an hour?"

"Uh huh."

"Damn."

"Uh huh."

Slowly, after taking detailed photos of the room at large, the criminalists began sifting through the chaos.

Pictures that had once hung along the walls now lay broken and scattered across the floor.

It was a black and white 8X10 picture of Emily Harris that grabbed Nick's attention first. Behind the cracked glass shone the face of a little girl. Laughter and joy covered her face, filled her eyes, and gave her life. The dark scarf covering the girl's head seemed obtrusive, even harsh against the girl's fair complexion. The sun filtering through the trees in the background, threw a glare on the lens, adding to the artistic taste of the snapshot. If possible, it only worked to accentuate the delicate features of the young girl's face.

_It was Emily's day._

_Hannah and Nathan had spent over an hour decorating the cake their mom had baked to perfection. The pink icing was perfect, as Hannah began to spread the confection over the dark chocolate cake. Nathan stood ready with rainbow sprinkles, itching to cover the cake in the sickly sweet morsels of sugar._

_Emily had been sick for several months, but today was a special day of celebration. Today, she had officially achieved remission; her doctor had even smiled when he gave the report. The cancer, the leukemia, was gone; she had beaten the disease. _

_It couldn't have come at a better time. Now, Emily had the chance to begin school, and actually attend regularly. It had been the one thing she'd wanted more than anything, to start first grade with her friends, to ride the bus like all the other kids._

_She'd been too sick to attend kindergarten, so her mom had taken to tutoring her at home. She'd taught her to read, to write, to spell all while working to balance the rest of the family life, as well as her catering business. The latter of which had been put on hold indefinitely, at least until Emily was well again._

_Now, at the end of August with the start of a new school year on the horizon, and the promise of the little girl's improving health, things seemed to be falling back into their proper places._

_While Hannah and Nathan busied themselves with the cake decorations, Diane Harris worked to put the finishing touches on all of Emily's favorite foods; mashed potatoes, chicken fingers, and fruit salad, heavy on the strawberries. _

_Emily had excitedly picked out her best outfit, in anticipation of the big event. She'd even prepared a special play for the family and with the help of her dad had set up her puppet stage in the living room._

_Now standing in the bathroom, a safety step stool aiding in her ability to see into the wall mirror, Emily smiled at her reflection. The outfit she had picked out hung just a little loose around her still thin frame. That didn't bother her much, it was her favorite outfit and she liked how she felt in the pink fleece top. The navy blue pants she wore accented with tiny pink flowers added just enough contrast to her bright blue eyes. She hadn't felt this good in weeks. The navy blue scarf she had tied around her head, matching her outfit perfectly, would soon become obsolete as evidence of new hair growth was already making itself known._

_Ready to present herself to the rest of the family she hopped down from the step stool after securing the knotted scarf on her head. A bright pink pair of Converse sneakers adorned her feet as she made her way down the stairs to meet her waiting father._

_The sun was warm as it angled in through the beveled glass of the front door. Once at the bottom of the staircase she greeted her father with a bright-eyed smile. He'd never seen his daughter look more beautiful. Sweeping her into his arms he kissed her cheek lightly and carried her into the dining room, placing her in the seat at the head of the table, the seat of honor._

_Today was her day._

The girl in the picture was a girl full of life, full of laughter. It was hard to imagine the girl lying in a bed over at Sunrise Children's Hospital, clinging to life, was the same little girl as that in the photo.

"What have you got?" Warrick asked bringing Nick back to the current reality. He'd noticed his partner's hesitation, his stiff posture almost immediately as he stood mesmerized by the object in his hands. He'd seen that look before, just…well…just not so intense. He'd had a similar expression when he'd taken the lead in the McBride case five months back. Now, though, the look was more intense; the look went deeper. It worried him, sure, especially now that it seemed to be happening more often. He knew Nick had a tendency to get wrapped up emotionally in his cases, had seen it on more than one occasion. But, there was something different about this one. There was something different about him.

"Photo of Emily Harris," Nick said his eyes still glued to the framed photo. He felt Warrick's eyes on him, but didn't trust himself to meet his friend's gaze. The image of Emily was haunting enough. He could almost hear the girl's laughter reverberating through the house, reverberating in his head. He gently placed the photo on the sofa and resumed his search for plausible evidence.

"Well, I've got a ton of stuff over here," Warrick smirked from his spot behind the desk. "The guy must have been in junk bonds."

"Yeah," Nick nodded. "He worked the stock market."

"Well, I've got over a dozen bond certificates, and even more stock receipts here. This stuff could be worth millions. Guess it's safe to say the killer wasn't looking for money."

"Yeah. Grissom and I found a safe in the master bedroom. There had to be at least a half mill left inside."

"Damn," Warrick let out a long sigh. "I still don't get this."

"Nothing about this is making sense," Nick shook his head bending to sort through the papers on the floor. "Hey, Rick, come check this out."

"What've you got?" he asked walking around the desk.

Nick had quickly sorted through a stack of papers, successfully clearing a spot on the floor just in front of the sofa.

"What do you make of this void?" Nick looked to Warrick. It was clear there had been a couple boards replaced in the floor. An area rug had been used to cover the discolored boards, but in the chaos of things had been upturned and rolled away.

"Those boards look new," Warrick raised his brow, looking toward the ceiling. "Water damage?" he asked pointing upward. Directly above them they could see the ceiling had recently been repaired and a fresh coating of paint applied.

"Maybe," Nick shrugged pulling out his pocket knife. Carefully he opened the blade and eased it between the newer planks of wood. With surprising ease the boards gave way revealing a void under the wood. His eyes looked to Warrick then quickly back to the hole in the floor. There sat a gray metal safety lock box. "Well, that's convenient," Nick offered a small smile as he reached in with gloved hands to extract the metal box.

"Is there a key?" Warrick shone his Maglite into the small space.

"Don't see one," Nick responded after lifting the second board, and shining his own light into the hole. "Maybe in the desk?"

"Yeah, good luck with that. I think I can pick this thing open," Warrick took a closer look at the metal box, focusing on the key lock. It wasn't the best, as far as lockboxes were concerned. He used to break into his cousin's lockbox all the time when he was a kid; this wouldn't be much different.

And, in fact, it wasn't.

Within just a couple minutes, Warrick had successfully worked the lock with Nick's pocket knife and popped open the metal box.

"Another reason your Grams was so watchful when you were a kid?" Nick offered a sly grin.

"One of many," Warrick chuckled as he began looking through the contents of the now open box.

"What have we got?" reaching in the pile for his share.

"Looks like birth certificates, social security cards, a few legal documents…a will…" Warrick listed. "What have you got?"

"Adoption papers," Nick said, his eyes scanning the documents. "Hannah and Nathan were adopted by Frank and Diane Harris."

"What?"

"Yeah," Nick nodded handing the papers to his partner. "Looks like they were adopted at birth. You've got their birth certificates there?"

"Yeah, well, Nathan and Hannah's. You got any papers on Emily?"

"No adoption papers," Nick shook his head his eyes drifting back to the lock box. "What's left in the box?"

"A few more bond certificates, looks like some educational Savings Bonds, that's it."

"So…where are the papers on Emily?" Nick asked.

"I don't know. I looked all over the desk…" Warrick trailed off, his eyes tracing back over the piece of furniture. "Nothing like that stickin' out."

"All the same," Nick shook his head as he pulled out his cell phone. "I'll have Brass follow up on the papers. Maybe he'll have something by the time we get back to the lab."

Warrick stood as Nick dialed the detective's number and returned to the desk. Looking at the turned over clock, he could see that it was almost noon. They only had a half hour before they had to be back at the lab.

"Hey Jim, its Nick. Can you check into the history of some adoption papers? I've got some papers here for Nathan and Hannah Harris. Says they were adopted back in '89 and '90."

"_You got it," _the detective responded.

"Thanks," he closed the call.

"Hey man, you think there's anything probative under all this?" Warrick asked as his eyes scanned the chaos on the floor.

"Only one way to find out."

"ALS?"

"ALS," Nick nodded pulling on his orange goggles. Shutting the door to the study and turning off the lights, the two got down to business.

"So, you think the killer was after the adoption papers?" Warrick asked as he busied himself by the window.

"Well, anything's possible, I guess. The question now would be; what would he want with them?"

"Adoptions weren't legit."

"Papers _look_ legit," Nick shrugged as he scanned the sofa with his alternate light source. "They're either legit, or one _hell_ of a forgery job."

"Weirder things have gone down. I mean, a bad adoption isn't exactly the best motive for murder, but…"

"What is?"

Silently, the CSIs got deeper into the detritus of papers, photos, and books. From what they could gather, which was actually very little, Frank Harris' study was clean, forensically speaking.

"I think I just hit the mother load," Nick spoke up after nearly ten minutes of silence.

"What'd you get?"

"Well," he started after turning the overhead light back on, "some of these books alone are worth thousands of dollars. This guy's got some first editions in prime shape."

"That's all you've got? A pricey book collection?

"Uh…no. I have a _card catalog_ of information here. Looks like a list of every book on these shelves, and then some. What do you want to bet the guy's insurance company has this same list?"

"Good luck finding _them_," Warrick smirked from his spot in front of the desk now.

"Bernadette Stepney should be able to help us out."

"How you figure?"

"Well, the list is printed on her letter head. _Stepney Insurance Company_," Nick smiled his broad grin.

"Well, if anything, it'll only help us catalog this mess. If robbery wasn't the motive, no tellin' what this punk was lookin' for," Warrick took a deep breath. "I can tell you one thing I'm not finding."

"What's that?"

"Blood. There's no evidence that our killer was in here, after he killed the family anyway."

"Maybe he changed clothes once the deed was done."

"I dunno man," Warrick let out a long sigh. "Maybe Frank Harris went on a rampage."

"And destroyed his own office? Come on, Rick. I saw the rest of this house. I don't buy it. What about prints on the desk?"

"Swipes and swirls. The guy probably wore gloves and wiped everything down for good measure."

"Damn, he really took his time with this," Nick shook his head. "We're not gonna to get lucky with this guy."

It was that thought, and that thought alone that seemed to weigh heavily on his mind. If the killer had taken the time to search for…whatever it was he was looking for, and then clean up after himself, how long had Emily Harris stayed hidden away?

How long had she sat cowered away in her hiding spot, terrified that the person was coming after her next?

The thoughts sent chills up Nick's spine. He knew what it was to be held captive by a man with no face. He knew what it was to hear a voice, to have that voice run on constant repeat in his brain, to wake up in the middle of the night sweating because the voice wouldn't leave him alone, wouldn't shut up. No one, especially Emily Harris, deserved to go through that.

He looked over at Warrick. The concern on his face was enough to amplify the tension already working and building in his muscles. He knew Warrick had been watching him as he looked at the photo of Emily and it was clear his partner had been watching him more closely the deeper he went into his own thoughts, the deeper they got into the room, the deeper they got into the case.

He hated that.

He hated feeling like his friends, his co-workers, were waiting for him to crack, constantly waiting and watching, ready to rush over the second he tripped or stumbled, or heaven forbid got too emotionally involved.

It seemed he couldn't work a case without Warrick, or Sara, or Catherine glancing over their shoulders to see how he was handling it. It seemed he couldn't work without hearing the same questions.

_You okay? _

_You need help? _

_How ya doing?_

They plagued him. Troubled him in his sleep. They were simple questions. Yet they sent as many chills up his spine as the black and white photo of Emily Harris that sat staring at him from the leather sofa. It was a haunting feeling.

"What have we got left to do?" he asked working to ignore the probing of his partner's eyes, hoping to bypass the inevitable questions.

"I'm just bagging up these bonds and receipts. Not sure they'll lead us anywhere," Warrick offered a half shrug. "Other than that…"

"I'll start loading gear into the car then," Nick nodded bagging the questionable legal documents and sliding them into his kit. He'd drop them off for verification and follow up with Brass on the family history and background checks.

He prayed the adoptions were legal. He prayed everything checked out.

They _had_ to be legal. Everything _had_ to check out.

Everything within him told him this was a good family. Everything within this _house_ told him the family was a good family. He didn't want to have to handle the reality of a family, this family playing a part in their own demise. He didn't want to have to hand that deck of cards to the little girl left to live without them.

Other than a few blood stains, the house was immaculate. Never before had Nick seen a house, with two teenagers and a seven year old, appear so orderly.

It was just…odd.

The sun was at its highest as Nick stepped out the front door. The temperatures were warming up, most likely into the low seventies already. Early spring was the best time of year to live in Vegas. Temperatures were relatively mild and with the winter rains ending, the desert was in full bloom.

Nick was glad to see the streets cleared of the early morning onlookers as he opened the back doors of the Denali and began filing away the collected evidence. Other than a couple cops keeping watch over the crime scene, the streets were empty. The news reporters had moved on, most likely developing their stories back at their respective stations or working on new angles while waiting outside the crime lab.

"I gotta go up and collect the kid's computers," Nick nodded as he passed Warrick on his way back into the house, tossing him the car keys.

"Yeah okay, I'm all set," he nodded walking down the front path.

Securing the scene, applying crime scene tape to the front door, sealing it shut, and signing out with the cops on scene, Nick climbed into the passenger seat of the SUV.

It was nearly half past twelve, he noticed as he pulled on his sunglasses.

It was obvious he was staring down the barrel of a double shift. A crime scene this messy usually required nothing less and usually more.

He took in a deep breath, holding it until his lungs burned as he kept his eyes forward. Slowly letting it go, he turned to Warrick, aware of the wary gaze his friend continued to pass his way.

"Gonna be a long day," he shook his head.

"Gonna be a long week," he nodded in response as he started the engine.

Good, so far no questions. At least with the looks, he could pretend he didn't notice. Questions were never that easy.

"Let's roll."

They'd be cutting it close to be on time for the team powwow.

Traffic this time of day was always murder.


	9. Kung Pao

**

* * *

****Chapter Nine** – Kung Pao

* * *

The essence of sweet and sour chicken, Chinese vegetables, and pork fried rice permeated the halls of the crime lab. Inside the conference room, the CSIs from the graveyard shift fixed their eyes on the table as it had been transformed into a Chinese buffet. Working around each other, looking for individual orders, the criminalists dug into their favorite Asian cuisine and an unusually long double, undoubtedly soon to be triple shift.

Upon leaving Grissom's office earlier that morning, Sheriff McKeene had made an unannounced visit to the office of Conrad Ecklie. While there, he'd made it abundantly clear to the lab supervisor that all overtime from graveyard was to be fully compensated until the Harris case was solved. It was upon that request that Ecklie had paid an equally unannounced visit to Grissom's office, subsequently interrupting his study of the Collins case, informing him of the sheriff's wishes in regard to the new overtime policy.

So, now in the interests of the Clark County sheriff and Ecklie, the patron saint of kiss asses, Grissom assembled his team to go over notes from the crime scene. With photos fresh from the dark room displayed around the room, the CSIs worked through their own notes in order to make an informed report to the team.

"The sheriff's pushing us hard on this one," Grissom was saying as Jim Brass came breezing into the room. He looked remarkably refreshed and clean. There was evidence of a renewed vitality, a renew energy, and his hair was wet. Damn it, the man had showered.

"Sorry, I'm late," the detective shook his head an apologetic grin plastered on his face. "What'd I miss?'

"Other than Greg spilling an entire quart of Chinese vegetables down his pants? Nothing," Sara smirked handing the detective his sweet and sour pork.

"Greg peed his pants," Nick smiled.

"Pea pods are of the devil anyway," the young CSI got defensive. "No one deserves to put that in their body."

"Damn, I'm always late to the show," the detective shook his head.

"We were just getting started," Grissom spoke up from his spot at the head of the table. He held a fork in his right hand, a carton of fried rice in his left. "And since you're here, why don't you tell us what you've gotten so far."

"Well, when Nicky called me an hour ago, I had about as much then as I've got now, and it's not a hell of a lot," he started removing his sport coat and hanging it over the back of his chair as he took a seat opposite the shift supervisor. Nick and Warrick sat to the right of the detective, Sara, Catherine, and Greg to his left. "Nicky called me with the adoption papers he and Warrick found."

"You _found_ the papers?" Catherine asked nearly choking on her egg roll. "Where?"

"Frank Harris's study," Warrick offered around a mouth full of chow mein.

"The room had been decimated," Nick added. "Somebody really gave it a work over."

"So, what have you found out?" Grissom asked getting back on track, his eyes returning to Brass.

"Like I said, not a hell of a lot. I've got a call into the adoption agency who worked their cases. Called them right after I got off the phone with Nick, about an hour ago. I'm still waiting to hear back from them."

"What's the name of the agency?" Warrick asked.

"Forever God's Family Adoption," the detective read from his notepad, "it's…uh…it's an _internet based ministry_," he quoted from his notes.

"I've actually heard of them," Sara nodded upon hearing the name. "It's a faith based organization to help women in their unwanted pregnancies. I think they have a field office here in Vegas."

"Only the teenagers were adopted?" Grissom asked.

"As far as _I_ can tell," Brass nodded. "No papers on the little girl?"

"None that we found," Nick shook his head, "I was going to head on over to the hospital when we got done here. Thought I'd ask Emily a few questions and acquire a DNA sample." He turned his attention to the shift supervisor. He wasn't looking for permission or approval for his impromptu field trip. Well, not really. Someone needed to get Emily's DNA. Someone needed to try and find out what she knew. Someone needed to find out what happened. He knew that and he knew Grissom knew that as well. He was more hoping that the man didn't have someone else in mind for making the visit, someone like Sara or Catherine. Something inside him told him _he_ needed to be the one to make the trip. He needed to be the one.

"Good," the supervisor nodded, much to the relief of the CSI. "What else?"

"Well, I got a decent shoe impression from the mud just outside the garage window," Greg leaned forward placing his half eaten carton of chicken on the table. "I'm still waiting for the cast to dry."

"Take a hair dryer to it," Warrick pointed his fork at him. It hadn't been too long ago he'd taken the same advice from his superior.

"We'll need those impressions," Grissom nodded in agreement.

"Well, Greg and I _both_ looked at those prints. Something definitely seemed off about them," Sara shook her head meeting Greg's line of sight and quickly looking to Grissom.

"Off how?" Catherine asked.

"Well, when Greg and I were outside, the ground was still soaked from the rain. It had only quit raining a few hours before we found the impressions. I mean, Greg and I both left our fair share of tracks around the yard. And well, for the size of the shoes, the impressions were rather shallow."

"A farce?" Brass asked.

"Maybe," Sara nodded picking up her chopsticks and returning to her carton of steamed vegetables. "It was really wet out there. The prints should have been deeper."

"From the size of the impressions, a male size twelve, and the indentation in the ground, the male would have only weighed around 90 pounds and been around five feet tall," Greg swiveled in his chair to look over the photos on the wall behind him.

"Maybe a female in men's shoes?" Nick asked.

"Or a kid wearing his dad's shoes," Warrick added.

"Well, I lifted some prints from the garage window sill. I got a couple partials and a palm. They weren't a match to any of the family members. They're running through AFIS as we speak."

"You thinking they entered through the garage?" Brass asked.

"Maybe," the young CSI shrugged.

"No way. We processed every inch of that garage," Warrick shook his head, his elbows propped on the table as he wiped his hands off on a napkin. "There were boxes stacked in front of that window. None of them had been disturbed. Sure, they could have put the boxes back, but before you ask," he looked at Grissom, "we didn't find any prints either, especially muddy shoeprints."

"Well, you saw the house as well as I did," Sara added. "The killer worked to clean up after himself. Out of a half dozen rooms we found, what…only a couple workable prints?"

"Yeah, I know," the tall criminalist nodded. "The guys a real pro," he smirked.

"Nick what'd you get from the bedrooms?" Grissom asked.

"Not a lot," he leaned back in his chair. "I found a blood stain in Hannah's bedroom, on her bed sheets. Other than that, a couple hairs from the bed, a few prints off the desk. They're being processed as we speak."

"That's the oldest daughter?" Grissom asked.

"Yeah," the CSI nodded. "In Nathan's room? Nothing really. I found a few stains on the bed sheets, brought them in for DNA. I bagged his computer as well as Hannah's, and a couple iPods. Archie's backlogged in A/V though, with all the family videos. It could be a few days before we get anything."

"That is if there's anything to get," Warrick snickered.

"What about the little girl's room?" Catherine asked now.

"Emily's room? That was a little more…interesting. There were a dozen or so different medications on her dresser, and a couple IV hookups dispensing morphine. The girl was on some hefty pain meds around the clock."

"She must have been in a _lot_ of pain," Sara shook her head.

"I ALSed the room, found some blood on the carpet near her bed. I took a swatch of the carpet, preserving the stain, Wendy's working on it now."

"Could be the girl's blood," Sara shrugged. "Leukemia patients tend to bleed rather easily. The white blood count is significantly lower in leukemia patients, the red blood cells need somewhere to go."

"Another reason to get a DNA sample from her," Grissom nodded.

"I _did_ find a crawl space in her closet," Nick picked back up on his findings pointing to the photos he had taken of the crawl space. "I'd say the space was just big enough for her to hide in until the killer left. I found urine stains on the floor. Hodges is working the sample now.

"I did manage to recover a couple footprints from the floor in the closet. One was a bare foot clearly belonging to Emily Harris. The _second_ belonged to a male…size twelve. I compared the print to the one I recovered from the master bedroom. At first glance, they're a match. I'll have to go a little deeper to make a complete match."

"What size shoe did the father wear?" Brass asked.

"Ten," Grissom responded matter-of-factly. "Anything probative in the upstairs bathroom?"

"Greg processed the bathroom," Nick shrugged his eyes trained on the younger man.

"The bathroom was _pristine_," the once-spiky-haired-lab-tech spoke up, "I mean, I found a few prints, mostly partials, and trace amounts of seminal fluid from the toilet. It's nothing out of the ordinary."

"What about the perimeter?" Warrick asked, "Other than the muddy footprints."

"Well, I found a cigarette butt by the back door," Sara shot up, "as well as a used match. DNA was able to get a workable sample and has it running now. We should have a workable profile by end of shift tonight."

"That quick?" Warrick asked.

"Greg, what'd you find in the front of the house?" Grissom shook his head.

"Wait a second here," Nick sat up straighter. "This…this cigarette butt, where _exactly_ did you find it?"

"By the back door," Sara responded. "It was in the bushes next to the back patio," she responded watching Nick's reaction turn to their boss.

"Seriously?" he turned to his boss who in return offered a silent nod. "Griss, come on…"

This couldn't just be a coincidence.

"Let's not jump to conclusions. Greg, the front of the house?" the supervisor turned his attention back to the younger CSI.

"Nothing," he shook his head. "There wasn't a single workable print on the doorbell, the door knocker, or the door knob. Any shoe treads on the sidewalk were washed away in the rain," he shrugged. "Tire treads in the driveway belonged to the Harris' vehicles and emergency response. Sorry."

"Catherine what's the condition of the girl?" Brass asked remembering she had first made a stop at the hospital before reporting to the crime scene.

"She has Acute Myelogenous Leukemia. She went into remission about…nine months ago but relapsed back in January."

"What are they doing to treat it?" Sara asked.

"They're keeping her comfortable," Catherine shrugged somberly, her ponytail sashaying as she shook her head.

"Hence the ample supply of morphine," Greg added.

"She's quit responding to chemotherapy," Catherine nodded. "Her only chance of a cure seems to be finding a viable bone marrow donor. With her siblings being adopted, the chances of finding one are slim to none."

"Weren't the parents tested?" Greg asked.

"First thing," she nodded.

"Have you had a chance to review the blood patterns in the master bedroom?" Grissom asked.

"I'm still in the early stages of it," she again shook her head. "Ask me tonight and I can give you more."

"Alright. Warrick?" Grissom turned his attention to the final CSI to report.

"The kitchen," he leaned forward over his notes, "had been wiped clean. I found a trace amount of blood in the drain, but it's compromised."

"Compromised how?" Brass asked.

"Oh, it's mostly animal blood, probably from the raw hamburger I found in the food disposal trap," the CSI shrugged. "If there was any human blood to be found, I couldn't find it. I _did_ find blood in the family room, though."

"Yeah, talk about weird," Sara nodded.

"Sara and I used Luminol, found blood leading from the kitchen into the den, most of it concentrated on the recliner. Found trace amounts on the remote controls, too."

"So what, the killer just hangs around the house to take in a midnight movie?" the detective asked, distaste thick in his voice, the bitterness of the idea unpleasant on his tongue.

"I know," Warrick nodded. "I also found several stock receipts and bond certificates. I'm running credit checks on the family bank accounts, see if there's anything that catches my eye. Obviously this thing wasn't a robbery gone bad. Nick says you found almost a half mill in the upstairs safe?"

Grissom offered another silent nod, his eyes focused on the file in front of him. He could already feel a migraine starting to take hold, teasing him from within the inner sanctums of his brain. Slowly he removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. Things just weren't adding up.

"Okay, here's what we're going to do," he started slowly. "Sara, stay with DNA on the cigarette you found. So far it seems to be the major link between our two cases," he started.

"Whoa, wait a second," Catherine raised a hand attempting to slow the turning of the man's wheels. "_What_ two cases? You thinking this thing is _linked_ to another case?"

"I don't know what to think," Grissom shrugged leaning back in his chair.

"Come on Cath," Nick spoke now, "you remember the Collins case as well as the rest of us. It can't just be coincidence that an entire family was murdered, and similar, damn near _identical_, evidence pops up. They _have_ to be connected."

"Okay…well, what about a copy cat? Has anyone considered that?" she responded.

"Look, as far was we know Tina Collins and Jesse Overton are still behind bars," Grissom interjected, effectively breaking the near rampant passing of questions between the members of his team. His eyes traveled the length of the table meeting the detectives.

"They are," he nodded in concurrence. "I can arrange a meeting," he shrugged loosening the tie around his neck.

"Do that," Grissom pointed a finger, "Did you get any witnesses, other than the one neighbor?

"I'm still working on it. I have an interview with a possible witness at five."

"Good, take Sara with you."

"Wait…I'm all for interviewing witnesses, and hunting down this phantom killer, but what about the DNA I'm running? You just said you wanted me sticking with it," she asked her gaze shifting between the two men.

"And you just said it won't be ready until tonight," Grissom turned to face his colleague, "and that may be pushing it. If Wendy gets something before then, have her page you," he shrugged.

"Anyway, Sara, DNA takes time to process," Greg offered a half smirk. "Wendy's not me, after all."

"Greg, follow up on those prints from the yard," Grissom instructed, casting a warning glance in the young man's direction as he started the process of collecting the papers in front of him. "Nick you're headed to the hospital?"

"Yeah."

"Good, and Warrick you're on bank accounts?"

"You got it."

"Look into their phone records, too. If the Harris' were expecting company for dinner, maybe this mysterious dinner guest called before he arrived."

"Or she," Sarah offered.

"You got it," Warrick nodded.

"I want to know everything as soon as you know. I've got Ecklie breathing down my neck and the sheriff not too far behind," he grimaced standing from the table. "We're all on the clock until this thing gets solved."

"Hey Gil, what will _you_ be doing?" Catherine asked finishing the last of her egg roll.

"Doc has finished posting and I want to take a look at those adoption papers," he shot back as he exited the room. "I want to talk to this agency. Keep me posted."

Slowly, the team roused themselves from the table. They each had their assignments, and the more time they sat staring at the empty cartons of Chinese food, the longer they sat without answers.

"Come on, Sarah," Nick cocked a half grin, "you _honestly_ think a woman could have pulled off binding and gagging a family and then slitting their throats?"

"Hey, it's possible," she shrugged. "Woman may not make up the majority of serial killers, but they're out there. In fact, of all women serial killers, eleven percent of them have used stabbing as their method."

"Yeah well, the Harris' had their throats slit. And, I didn't tell you I found semen on the victims, did I?"

"Semen?"

"Doc found evidence of sexual trauma on both the mother and the daughter," Greg interjected with a nod.

"Guess that blows your theory," Nick shrugged standing from his chair.

"Well, what do you guys say we do this thing?" Warrick sighed leading the parade to the trash can and back out into the lab. "I'll see ya guys later."

"Where you headed?" Nick asked tossing his trash away.

"Frank Harris's firm. I want to get into his office, and check things out. And then I'll pay the friendly people over at Bank of America and nice little visit."

"Yeah, good luck with that. Well, I'll see you guys later," Nick turned to Catherine, Greg, and Sara. "Oh and Sara, good luck with, uh, DNA," he laughed running down the hall, successfully evading the punch thrown his direction.

"Funny." She couldn't help but smile.

* * *

Quickly, quietly, Grissom maneuvered through the halls of CSI, his office his primary destination. He had too many questions, and not enough answers, and the migraine that had threatened at the beginning of his team's meeting was forcefully beginning to let its presence be made known. It wasn't coming at a good time, not that there ever was a good time. Doing his best to ignore the pain, he grabbed a bottle of water, popped a couple Excedrin Migraine tablets and turned to his laptop computer.

He needed answers and quite uncharacteristically, even for him, he wanted them now.

He had some research to do on Forever God's Family Adoption agency.


	10. Pale Recognizance

**Note:** thanks again for the reveiws! This chapter takes us just about to the halfway point...I'm not yet sure whether this is gonna be a 20 chapter or a 21 chapter story...so...hope you're enjoying thus far...and hope this remains true to form!  
Gracias!  
**

* * *

**

**Chapter Ten** – Pale Recognizance

* * *

Nick, his sunglasses on in an attempt to block the glare of the early afternoon sun, maneuvered his Denali through the heavy traffic as he headed toward South Maryland Parkway. His progress was slow, traffic in the city this time of day was a nightmare, as he attempted to drive in the near bumper to bumper traffic.

Finally arriving at Sunrise Children's Hospital, nearly half an hour later, he wheeled his vehicle in and around the crowded parking lot. Settling for an empty space in the far aisle, he climbed out of the driver's seat, grabbed his kit from the back seat and slowly made the trek to the front doors.

Though the sun was out in full force and temperatures hovered near the eighty degree mark, a chill ran throughout his body. Everything within him seemed to be screaming at him, telling him to turn around, to call Catherine and have her come over to talk to the little girl. What was he thinking, coming to interview this child? Didn't he remember the last time?

The last time. It was enough reason for him to want to run in the opposite direction. Yet it was the last time that kept him moving forward now. There was something deep that kept his feet moving, that kept his grip firm around his field kit, and kept his eyes on the front door.

Walking through the sliding doors into the waiting room, he was surprised by the comfort, the soothing calm, he found. The reception area had a comforting, almost eerie, calm about it. The receptionist, a petite older woman with silver white hair, and a pair of plastic rimmed bifocals hanging around her neck, looked up from her magazine and offered him a smile as he made his way toward the elevator.

Though he knew where he was headed, he busied himself reading the placard directory while waiting for the elevator to arrive. A family of four joined him in his wait for the vessel to take them upward. It wasn't often that he felt self conscious; but the feeling of four sets of eyes on his back, and most notably the field kit dangling in his left hand and the gun holstered at his hip, left him with an increasing sense of discomfort. Why hadn't he left his piece back at the lab?

The elevator, finally arriving on the first floor, opened allowing him to retreat to the back of the little more than slightly compact vault.

"What floor?" the father of the family asked as he followed his family on and pushed the button for the fourth floor.

"Oh, uh…four," Nick nodded, glancing down at the young child that clung to the man's hand. The boy, with his wide blue eyes and white blonde hair, couldn't seem to break his gaze from the kit hanging loosely, now, in his grip. Self-consciously he felt his grip tighten around the plastic handle as he tried to offer his best smile. It felt tense, even to him.

"Honey, quit staring," the mother offered softly, casting an apologetic grin his direction.

"It's okay, ma'am," his voice cracked.

Clearing his throat, he could feel his chest tightening, his mouth becoming parched. He watched, forcing himself to focus on the changing numbers, indicating which floor they were on.

Two…

The elevator was incredibly warm, suffocating even. Looking above him in his corner, he could see that the usual fan meant to keep the elevator slightly cooled and comfortable wasn't working. He could feel sweat beading on his forehead, running down between his shoulder blades. His muscles were tightening, his breathing becoming slightly staggered. All of a sudden, his slightly baggy shirt felt much too tight. Slowly, he stretched his neck muscles, working at the collar of his shirt with his free hand.

Three…

Would they ever reach the damn fourth floor?

Could that _kid_ possibly find something _else_ to look at?

He could feel his legs becoming weak, his knees threatening to give out on him. The wall behind him became his primary source of support as the floor threatened to fall out from under him.

Four…

Finally, the doors opened, the family stepped out and Nick welcomed the sweet flood of relief as he stepped across the gap and onto solid ground. A full wall window, just to the right of the elevator, looked out over the parking lot. It was there that he took the time to collect himself allowing the sun streaming through the glass to ease away the tension in his muscles. Noticing the water fountain in the corner, he ran the water taking in the cold refreshment, allowing the clear, cold elixir to sooth his parched throat.

He stood upright now, leaning against the fountain, watching silently as the nurses worked their way from room to room. Some carried trays of medication, others an extra blanket, or an extra chair.

To his surprise, the floor was rather active. He could hear the sounds of children's laughter resonating through the hall.

Slowly working up the courage, he started making his way toward the unmistakable sounds of life.

To his left, just past the elevators, he paused as he came to the recreation room. The walls were a bright yellow accented around the border by a brilliant shade of orange. Pictures drawn by patients covered the walls. The far wall, cut in half height-wise by a massive window, allowed the early afternoon sun to fill the room. The tile floor, normally solid white in most hospitals, was vibrant, a kaleidoscope of colors.

Easels, sporadically placed around the large room, displayed bright paintings of various outdoor scenes. Children, clad in hospital pajamas, most bald from chemotherapy, some confined to wheelchairs, others with IVs still connected, busied themselves at the many tables scattered about the room. Some worked jigsaw puzzles, others played board games. In the far right corner he could see a group of boys playing video games, and having a good time at it. It was their laughter that filled his ears the most.

"You must be CSI Stokes," he heard a sweet voice come from behind him. Turning from his spot near the door of the community room, he met the owner of the voice. "I'm Sam, we spoke on the phone," she offered a wide smile and her hand for shaking. She was young, possibly in her late twenties. Her brown hair was pulled loosely into a ponytail. The pink scrubs she wore only helped accentuate her peaches and cream complexion.

"Nick Stokes," he nodded with a grin. "You're Emily Harris' nurse?"

"That's right," she nodded as her hands swiped a strand of hair behind her ear and then clung to the stethoscope around her neck. Her eyes followed his back to the scene within the room before them. "They're amazing aren't they?"

"Yeah," he nodded with a deep breath.

"So you want to see Emily?" she asked turning to lead him down the hall.

"Yeah," he nodded again, following her lead. "How is she?"

"Tired," she shrugged resolutely. Emily's room was only three down from the community room. "But, she's always tired. How much do you know about her condition?" she asked, stopping outside her room.

"Acute Myelogenous Leukemia," he shrugged. "I know the chemo has quit working…she's waiting for a bone marrow transplant? I, uh, just came from her house. I saw the medications she was on."

"Yeah. We're basically doing what we can to keep her comfortable," she nodded. "Just keep in mind, the medications she's on can make her kind of loopy."

"Loopy, huh?" Nick offered a half grin. "That a technical term?"

It was a comment effective enough to bring a grin to the nurse's face, her straight white teeth showing through her parted lips. "I'll go in and make sure she's ready to talk," she nodded.

Nick leaned his weight against the pale yellow wall. He wasn't even sure _he_ was ready to talk.

The photos of Emily haunted him. Photos of a little girl laughing and enjoying life.

He'd seen it all before.

He'd seen it in Cassie McBride.

It was with Cassie the last time that he'd been in a hospital, this hospital, talking to her about the death of her own family.

He'd broken then, crumbled under the weight, his heart completely wrung out for her. He didn't know if he could go through it again.

"Nick? You can go in, now," Sam smiled tenderly, her eyes full of concern.

"Thanks," he nodded brushing past her and gently closing the door behind him.

And there she was.

"You were at my house," Emily Harris said, a hint of recognition lighting up her eyes as Nick stood just inside the room.

"That's right," he smiled warmly making his way inside. She was sitting up, her legs crossed Indian style in front of her, her back supported by a couple of pillows. An IV, dispensing a saline drip and morphine, hung from a metal pole and entered into the back of her right hand. She didn't have her scarf around her head today. He could see in the dim light, the feather-like down that was beginning to show across her scalp. "I'm Nick," he smiled taking a seat, now, in the chair near the head of her bed. "I was hoping you and I could talk a little. I'd like to ask you some questions…about… about what happened at your house last night, if that's okay. You think you're up to it?" he started slowly, carefully.

He noticed the tension, the fear, cross her face immediately. Her eyes fell to her lap, her grip tightening on the blankets.

"Emily," he reached out a hand and gently placing it on hers. It was an abrupt move, one he wasn't sure should have been made so quickly. But, it seemed to work. Slowly her grip loosened. "I know this is hard. I know it hurts to remember…but…I…I need you to try. I'll help you, okay? And, we can stop anytime you want."

He'd said the same thing to Cassie.

Slowly, her eyes met his. A silent tear fell down her cheek.

He felt his throat close up, his eyes dam up, threatening to release the flood of emotions he'd worked hard to barricade deep inside. This little girl, one of the strongest people he'd met in his career, was threatening to be the cause of his complete and utter emotional breakdown.

Time was standing still.

The world was fading away.

For now, his entire world was Emily Harris.

"Mom was crying," she started slowly, her voice barely above a whisper. "She never cries," she shook her head.

"Do you know _why_ she was crying?" he asked gently, his voice cracking under the emotional duress.

She shook her head, her eyes again downcast. "I think she was scared," she shrugged.

"Do you know where your sister and brother were?"

Again, she shook her head.

"I could hear Hannah crying too."

"Emily," he coaxed her to look at him. "I need you to think really hard, okay? Did you _hear_ anyone, or _see_ anyone in your house?"

It seemed forever before she answered. Her voice came out a cracked whisper.

"There was a man," she whispered, her eyes widening in fear.

"There was a man?"

"He was with my mom," she nodded slowly. "They were in my room. I was supposed to be sleeping, but I was just pretending. He was whispering. She didn't like him very much. I don't think my dad liked him either."

"Why do you think that?"

"Dad yelled at him."

"Did you _see_ the man?"

Slowly, hesitantly, she looked to the door, as if making sure no one else could see her.

She nodded her head.

"Where was he?"

"In the hall," she began to cry softly. "I got scared."

"It's okay, sweetheart," he responded, his voice choking. He tightened his grip on her hand, hoping it came as a sign of assurance, of encouragement.

"I wasn't supposed to be out of bed. Mom didn't want me getting up. But I did. I looked outside."

"Into the hall?"

"I could see him through the crack," she nodded. "I hid, so he couldn't find me," she whispered.

"That's good," he nodded offering his best encouraging grin. "That's good."

"Mom told me, if I ever got scared I should hide. No one knew where my hiding spot was. Not even Nathan and Hannah."

"What happened after you hid?"

She didn't want to answer this question.

Slowly she released her grip on Nick's hand and hugged her knees to her chest, holding them in with her arms.

"Emily, sweetie, I know it's hard. I know you don't want to remember. I know it seems easier to forget, but I need you to try for me," he moved to sit on the side of her bed, facing the scared little girl. Gently he used his forefinger to lift her chin, bringing her sad eyes to his. He could see a part of himself in those eyes. "It's okay," he nodded. "You're safe now. The man can't hurt you." He heard his voice faltering, cracking under the weight of his threatening emotions.

"He…he came…he came into my room," she managed. "He knew my name."

"So, you heard his voice?"

She nodded.

"Did you know his voice? Did you recognize it?"

She shook her head frantically.

The look in her eyes was terrifying.

"Can I tell you a secret?" he asked hoping to ease her mind from the conversation. "See this box I brought with me?"

She nodded, her eyes trained on the silver box.

"Well, it's full of magic stuff," he smiled as her eyes looked at him with skepticism. "Seriously. I wouldn't lie to you, I'm not allowed," he grinned. "You know what my job is?"

"You're a policeman," she nodded.

"That's right. But, I'm a special _kind_ of policeman. See, I'm the kind that gets to use the magic," he smiled opening his kit. "See, people lose a lot of stuff. When they do things they sometimes leave stuff behind. And regular police can't see most of it. So, I get to help them find it. You see, without me the police couldn't catch the bad guys," he winked at her. "So, I get to go into all different kinds of places and help them find things. These things I find? They help put the bad guys in jail."

"So, what do you find?"

"Well, sometimes the things I have to find are pretty big. Guess how big," he smiled playfully.

"I don't know," she shrugged. A smile curled the corners of her mouth. It was the first he'd seen of the girl from the framed photos.

"Come on, guess."

Again she smiled, shaking her head.

"Would you believe I get to find cars? Sometimes I get to find bikes. One time I had to find a boat. Guess where I found the boat?

"Where?"

"In someone's driveway. One time? I even had to go to the gross landfill and dig through trash. Know what I found there? A frying pan," he smiled offering a little laugh. "But, sometimes? Sometimes the things I have to find aren't so easy to see. Sometimes they're _invisible_."

"How do you find them, then?"

"It's hard," he nodded. "But you see all of this?" he motioned to his open field kit. "All of _this_ helps me find things that are invisible. _That's_ why it's magic," he winked. "What kinds of things do you think this helps me find?" he asked holding up a bottle of black print powder.

Taking the jar into her hand she looked the contents over.

"I don't know," she shrugged.

"Well," he began by taking the jar back, "this helps me find fingerprints. Want to see how it works?"

She offered a sweet smile as she nodded her head, "Okay."

"Here's what you do. Take your hands like this," he demonstrated laying his hand out palm up, "and rub your head," he smiled ruffling his own hair. "Now, slap them on this," he laughed laying a piece of paper atop her bed and finishing his demonstration.

He smiled watching her comply with his instruction.

"Now watch," he motioned with the jar of print powder. "I take this brush, dip it in the powder, and then brush the powder over the paper," he demonstrated with the smooth twirl of the brush. "Check it out," he smiled showing his now visible hand print. "Wanna give it a shot?"

She smiled taking the offered brush and dabbing it oh-so-carefully into the open jar of powder. With the intricate care of a first grader, she maneuvered the brush over the paper.

"Good job," he laughed as the girl's tiny hands slowly came into view.

He hesitated then, wary of the next question he knew had to be asked. "Do you know why I was at your house last night?" he asked, gently bringing the conversation back around.

"To find things?" she asked with all the innocence of the child that she was.

"That's right," he nodded. "Emily…" he hesitated again, not sure how to tell her what was jumbled in his head. "The man in your house was scary, wasn't he?"

She nodded slowly.

"The man hurt your mom and dad, didn't he?"

Another slow nod.

"And Nathan and Hannah?"

One more nod.

"Emily, I…I found your hiding place. Did…did the man in your house find it?"

"No," she shook her head, her chin quivering.

"The space in your closet, behind your puppet stage, right?"

She nodded slowly, unsure, her eyes again cast toward the door.

"It _is_ a really good hiding spot. I bet you could stay there all the time and no one could find you."

"I bet _you_ could find me," she tried to smile.

"Emily…can you help me try to imagine what this man looked like? Did you see his face?"

Again, she was hesitant to answer.

He knew she didn't want to.

"I only saw his back," she shook her head.

"That's okay. Just tell me what you remember," he nodded.

"He had brown hair."

"Brown hair?"

"And he dressed like my dad."

"Okay," he nodded coaxing her on. "Okay. Was he tall or short…maybe taller than your dad?"

"I don't know," she shrugged. "Maybe. I…I couldn't see."

"Okay, that's okay," he turned his attention to his field kit once more. "Can I show you one more thing?" he asked pulling out a cotton swab, its amber plastic cover closed over the cotton tip.

"What's that?" she asked.

"This? Oh, this is a giant Q-Tip," he smiled removing the protective plastic cover. "Wanna know what we do with these?"

She nodded, her eyes again wide with interest.

"Check this out. This helps me find DNA. Do you know what DNA is?" he asked, squinting his eyes slightly.

She shook her head in the negative.

"Well, DNA helps tell me who people are. If I don't have pictures of a person, or I don't know who they are, DNA can tell me," he smiled opening his mouth and swabbing the inside of his cheek. "That's how it works," he shrugged closing the plastic cap. "Doesn't even hurt. Wanna give it a go?" he asked handing her a swab.

Mirroring the CSI, she swabbed the inside of her mouth.

"You've done this before, haven't you?" he smiled. "And…if I mix them up I have a special machine back where I work that can tell me which one's yours and which one's mine," he smiled taking the sample from the girl's hand, as she leaned back heavily into the pillows. "Getting tired?"

She nodded, her eyes clearly becoming heavy.

Silently, Sam breezed back into the room. Quite skillfully, she proceeded to check Emily's IVs and vitals.

"How's the pain, honey?" she asked quietly, gently placing a hand on the child's cheek.

"Okay," Emily yawned.

"How's Nick, here?" the nurse motioned with her head.

"I like him," the child smiled.

Nick smiled as he silently sat watching, impressed by the gentleness of the nurse.

Jotting a few notes on the patient's chart, she returned the clipboard to its spot at the end of the bed. Offering a soft smile to the CSI, she left as silently as she'd entered.

"Are you leaving now?" Emily asked with a yawn as she watched Nick pack up his kit through her drooping eyelids.

"Not if you don't want me to," he shook his head standing from his seat next to her. Gently, carefully he pulled the blankets up around the girl's thin frame.

"Stay," she nodded, her eyelids growing heavier.

"Alright. I'm not going anywhere," he smiled his hand gently stroking the child's forehead. "I'm not going anywhere."


	11. Waterproof Spectacle

**Note:** okay...so here's the REAL chapter Eleven! Forgot to make a few page breaks in the text...so without further adue...ENJOY!

* * *

**Chapter Eleven** – Waterproof Spectacles

* * *

"Frank and Diane Harris are a featured family on the Forever God's Family website," Brass held up a short stack of papers as he entered the dimly lit office of Gil Grissom.

The entomologist sat behind his desk, leaning into the monitor of his laptop computer. It was the same position he'd been in for the past three hours. Now nearing the five o'clock hour, he was beginning to feel the effects of his work. His back muscles were tired, his eyes burning from the iridescent glow of the computer screen.

"I'm looking at it now," Grissom nodded his chin resting in the palm of his hand. "Nothing about this is adding up. There's nothing unusual about this agency," he shrugged leaning back in his chair, taking the time to rest his worn body.

"Have you read their profile?" The detective resigned to a chair in front of the CSI supervisor's desk.

The man offered a silent nod in return.

"I talked to one of the ladies that head up the agency. They screen all of their families seeking to adopt. They stand on strong moral ground, never turning a child away kind of thing. Hannah and Nathan's adoptions are both legit as far as I can tell. I even got the name of the social worker that worked their cases."

"Who would that be?" Grissom asked his attention shifting from his computer to the detective.

"Ted Goggle. A few years back this guy quit his job with Child Protective Services and started working for this agency."

"A change of heart, perhaps?" Grissom asked.

"A change in paycheck is more like it," Brass smirked. "The guy was pushing five figures with CPS. With this agency he can _easily_ get six a year."

"That much of an increase, really?" Grissom asked slightly astonished.

"Adoption pays," the detective shrugged. "Anyway, from what I can tell it's all clean. The adoptions are legal beyond legal."

"So where does that leave us?"

"With a whole heap of nothing," Brass sighed in resignation. "But get this; I looked into Emily's background. You know Nick and Warrick found papers on the teenagers, but none on the little girl. Turns out there _are_ no papers on her…at least in any local hospital."

"So, maybe she wasn't born here?"

"I don't know, yet. I'm looking into it."

"It could be nothing," Grissom shrugged.

"Well, my gut's telling me it's _something_. I trust it before I trust nothing," he stood from his chair. "Well, I've got a date with Mrs. Glover," he stood from his chair.

"Mrs. Glover?"

"The Harris's next door neighbor," he nodded with a shrug. "It may be worthwhile."

Grissom watched as the detective exited his office, a hollow feeling sweeping over him. He hated the feeling, like he was digging himself into a hole. What's worse, he hated that it seemed to be ever-so-slowly becoming deeper with each new turn in the case and the inability to dig himself out was becoming greater with each new piece of evidence.

Why wouldn't there be any record of Emily Harris's birth?

Why wouldn't her parents have her papers?

So many questions were burning behind his eyes, so many seemingly unanswerable questions.

"Grissom," Greg bounded in now, a grin lighting his eyes. "I got a make on the shoeprint from the yard."

"Good."

"Not really," he shook his head as he handed over his report in the midst of receiving a questioning glance from his boss. He watched as Grissom read over the findings. The look the man shot him wasn't unexpected.

A mixture of surprise, confusion, and bewilderment clouded the man's face.

"From these photos…" Grissom trailed off.  
"I know," Greg nodded. "It doesn't make sense."

"For starters, I thought you said you were looking at a male size twelve?"

"Well, after the molds dried, I re-measured," the CSI started, "Turns out they're a _woman's_ size ten."

"And the type of shoe?" Grissom asked.

"A New Balance cross trainer, manufactured and distributed nation wide in mass quantities. I called the manufacturer in Boston. Turns out they send out shipments to Vegas about three times a month. I got a list of local distributors and called them up. There are four major chains that stock and sell this brand of trainer."

"_Dick's_, _Foot Locker_, _AllSports_, and…" the supervisor read down the list.

"And _Finish Line_," Greg finished with a nod. "That's not including the dozen or so small family-owned shoe stores that sell New Balance. Get this," he smiled sitting straighter in his chair. "I _did _find something interesting. Turns out the West Coast prison system offers this line of cross trainer for sell in their commissaries. Inmates can buy them for around forty bucks."

"Well," Grissom shook his head, "Give this to Brass. Let him follow up on it. The Harris cars just came into the garage. I need you to start processing."

"By myself?" he asked, a little more excited than confused by the prospect of working alone.

"Warrick's still backed up on phone records and Nick's still at the hospital. Sara is with Brass talking to possible witnesses, and Catherine is busy with blood spatter. You're all I've got."

"Okay," he smiled with a nod turning on his heels.

Despite the fact that he was the man's last option, the last of Grissom's go-to men, Greg relished the thought of running something on his own. He'd processed cars before, but always _with_ someone. He knew he was capable of doing the job on his own, but as a Level One he knew it to be procedure that he have someone with him.

Still, the chance to do this was a rush.

Alone in Greg's wake, Grissom was again left to his own thoughts. He sat there in his increasingly dark office for what seemed like hours. Left to the vices of his own mind, and the case at hand, he feared the onset of a mental breakdown.

The silence alone was enough to make him crack.

The sound of his cell phone, vibrating to life atop his desk, was a sweet reprieve from the circular motions chasing his own thoughts.

"Grissom," he answered working to keep his nerves in check.

_"Griss,"_ Warrick responded on the other end, _"Check this; I've looked through every record I could get from Frank Harris's bank."_

"Anything?"

_"Well, there's nothing jumping up and biting me in the ass, if that's what you mean. There _is_ a gargantuan payout back in January, though."_

"How much?"

_"A hundred and fifty thou. And before you ask, I don't know who it went to. I'm still working on it. There are a couple more anomalies, though."_

"Such as…"

_"Well, each month the Harris's paid out over fifty thousand for Emily's medical care. But, I've got a couple payments made here to Child Protective Services for almost a hundred thousand each."_

"Could be adoption fees. Brass hasn't been able to track down papers for Emily Harris. Maybe she's out of the system?"

_"I'll look into it," _Warrick responded.

"Anything on phone records?"

_"Not yet. Phone Company wouldn't comply, sent me in for a damn court order. So, now I'm waiting for their lawyers to review and then send over the records. I'll let you know," _he clicked off.

* * *

"Harold and I always eat an early dinner. He likes to be finished in time for Wheel of Fortune," Cynthia Glover was telling the detective. She sat across the table from him and Sara in an interview room at PD. Outside the halls were bustling. Now almost six o'clock, shifts were changing. Uniformed officers rushed through the halls, called out into the field or simply out on patrol. 

Sitting across the table from the detective and CSI, Cynthiana Glover was the epitome of elderly women. Her silver gray hair was long, but pinned back in a bun at the nape of her neck. She was dressed in a very vibrant pink jogging suit, her well manicured nails painted a matching, though slightly lighter shade of the same color. "When you called me Detective, I knew exactly who you were talking about. When I saw that young man standing outside in the cold, I just knew something was wrong."

"So he was a young man?"

"Well, relatively speaking. You know how it is Detective," she spoke sweetly, a blush rising in her cheeks. "When you get to be my age… I'm no spring chick."

Brass smiled coyly as he worked to loosen his tie. This was going to be an incredibly painful interview. For the life of him, he hated old people.

"Anyway, I was washing the dishes when I noticed this gentleman standing out on the sidewalk."

"This struck you as odd?" Brass asked now leaning forward, his arms resting atop the table.

"Well, he stood there for nearly ten minutes just staring at their house, and it was so cold last night. And that rain? I remember thinking, he didn't have enough clothes on, his coat looked so thin, and well…he was sure to get pneumonia."

"The Harris's house?" Sara asked from beside the detective.

"So you saw him go in?" Brass added, trying to direct the conversation. This lady was really beginning to add to his already pounding headache.

"Well…" she started slowly, thinking back the twenty four hours, "As I said I was doing the dishes. The window was rather fogged over, but I _did_ see him head to their front door. Yes."

"Okay, Mrs. Glover," Sara started, "did you happen to see what he looked like?

"It was awful dark, Ms. Sidle," she hesitated, thinking hard. "Come to think of it, I _did_ see he wore eye glasses," she nodded. "I saw the street light reflect off of them as he turned."

"Turned?" Brass asked.

She nodded her eyes now on the detective. There was a look to her deep gray eyes, a look of determination, of sheer will power. Maybe it was the onslaught of early dementia. He couldn't be sure. "It was the oddest thing. He was standing there, in the cold, still as a statue. And all of a sudden, I saw his head turn toward my house, toward the window where I was washing the dishes. It was as if he could _feel_ me watching him. I got the coldest feeling. I had Harold lock all the doors and windows."

"So he wore glasses," Sara said casting a sideways glance toward Brass. "Is that it?"

"Well…come to think of it he had brown hair, too. He was starting to go bald on top."

"Could you see the light reflecting off _that_ too?" Brass asked dryly.

"You never saw him leave?" Sara asked.

"No, honey, I sure didn't," the lady shook her head apologetically. "I _did_ give the Harris's a call later that evening. When they didn't answer the phone I just assumed they'd gone on to bed. I'm sorry I can't be of more help. I think what you do in law enforcement is _so_ important."

"About what time did you call them?" Brass asked, slightly intrigued now.

"Oh, around ten o'clock I guess. It was right before the early news. Harold and I always watch the news before we go to bed."

"Well, thank you for coming in Mrs. Glover," Brass stood to escort the lady to reception. "We'll let you know if we have any further questions."

Together, Brass and Sara watched as a uniformed officer escorted their, quite possibly, only viable witness to her car. In involuntary shiver traveled the detective's spine at the thought of that old woman driving.

"Well, I'd say that was a bust," Sara threw her hands up in frustration. "She just described half of the city population."

"Yeah, glasses and brown hair isn't exactly enough to paint a Michelangelo," Brass grimaced as the two started the trek back to CSI.

"So, did you get an interview with Tina Collins?"

"Tomorrow morning, eight o'clock," he nodded. "She's got a year left on her sentence."

"Five years for accessory to murder?" Sara asked. "_She_ got off easy."

"Yeah, well I guess they took pity on her, being a minor and well…" He didn't want to finish the sentence. The whole situation facing Tina and Brenda Collins was atrocious, and quite frankly it made him sick to think a father would do something to harm his own daughters. It just went against every grain in his body.

Together the two weaved their way through the crowded halls to CSI. After spending nearly an hour with Cynthia Glover, with no real ground covered, they both felt the pangs of the onset of heightened frustration.

"Hey, what's Greg doing in the garage?" the detective pointed as they pasted the trace lab.

"I dunno," she shrugged separating their paths to find out.

* * *

"Anyway, they made about a dozen calls to this lawyer guy," Warrick was saying. He stood now in front of Grissom's desk, his right hand massaging the back of his neck. Grissom was just as Brass had left him, hunkered behind his desk. 

"Howard Lawson?"

"Yeah, and get this," he took a seat in front of his boss's desk. "Checking their bank accounts, right? I found a substantial amount of money deposited in their checking account about a week ago."

"How substantial?"

"A hundred and fifty thou., but this is where it gets interesting. Frank Harris wrote a check in that _same_ amount the day before he and his family were murdered? Turns out the money went to Chandler and Kao. Guess who works for the firm?"

"Howard Lawson?"

"So I gave them a call," he nodded, "and things just keep getting weirder. As it turns out, the family was investigated in the case of a missing girl from Reno."

"I remember that case," Brass said from the doorway of the office. "A little girl went missing about six months ago. Police thought they had a lead here in Vegas. They questioned the Harris's a few months back. The case is still unsolved."

"Lawson won't be in till eight o'clock in the morning," the CSI shrugged.

"What'd you find out?" Grissom addressed the detective removing his glasses and placing them on his desk.

"A little old lady saw a man with brown hair and glasses standing outside the Harris home last night," the detective leaned in the doorway.

"So basically you got nothin'?" Warrick asked.

"Yeah, basically. What'd Nicky get from the little girl?"

"I don't know yet. He hasn't gotten back," the shift supervisor cast a glance at the clock on his desk as he leaned back in his chair exhuming a puff of air as his back hit the leather. Nick had been gone longer than he'd expected him to be.

"Well, I put Vartann in charge of pulling the records and case files for me on this Howard Lawson guy. Turns out Lawson's worked several adoption cases. I'm headed to PD now," Warrick stood stretching his back muscles.

"Take Vartann when you follow up with this law firm…Chandler and Kao?" Grissom added as he watched his CSI stand and head toward the exit. "They may be our only link."

"I'm all over it," Warrick nodded.

"So, this Howard Lawson…" Brass started digging for information as the CSI left the two older men.

"Howard Lawson was the lawyer working the adoptions for the Frank and Diane Harris."

"And the Harris's paid him…"

"Looks like standard law fees," Grissom shrugged, leaning his elbows on the top of his desk as he massaged his temples.

"Adoptions sure aren't cheap these days," the detective sighed.

"I don't know Jim. This case is raising so many questions, and…"

"And answers aren't coming fast enough? It's not like you to want to rush the evidence Gil," he offered a slight grin.

"That's just it. The evidence is leading us in twenty different directions."

"It's a cruel world. Ain't it great?"

"Yeah, well we're chasing our tails on this one. Evidence is multiplying like a rabbit in heat and I'm running thin on CSIs."

* * *

"Aw, my little Greg is growing up," Sara pursed her lips in a grin as she entered the garage. "Looks like you've got your hands full. Are you _processing_ these cars or did Grissom and Ecklie just need their oil changed?" 

Greg was busy in the front seat of a Chevy Tahoe, the stereo on the work bench tuned to a local metal station.

"This is Frank Harris's car, that one's the wife's. Everyone was busy, so…Grissom asked me to process," he released a long breath as he exited from the driver's side of the large SUV.

"Finding anything?"

"I've been over ever square inch of this car. I've fumed it for prints, I've ALSed for blood. There's nothing. A few prints on the gear shift, and steering wheel, I sent them to Jacqui in the print lab. But other than a couple jelly stains on the back seat… There's nothing probative."

"What about the Jetta?" Sara pointed to the second vehicle in the garage.

"Was just about to get to it."

"Need some help?"

"Sure," he nodded with a smile. "You take the back?"

"You're the boss," she smiled pulling on a pair of black heavy duty gloves and opening the back passenger side door. "Hey, so what'd you find out on the shoeprints?"

Greg quickly made his way across the garage, turning the volume down on the radio. Diving into his search of the front seat of the car he responded, "Oh turns out they belong to a _female_, size ten."

"What?" Sara asked bolting upright subsequently hitting her head on the roof of the car. "The shoes belong to a female?" There was a hint of surprise and shock just behind the look of pain as she sat rubbing the top of her head, her eyes now on the man beside her.

"Yeah," Greg laughed, "from the width of the shoe it was easy to think it was male. But, it's _definitely_ a female shoe."

"What make were they?" Her brain was turning, stumbling across possibilities.

"New Balance cross trainers," he shrugged. "Why?" But Sara was out the door before he could finish the question.

She had to talk to Brass.


	12. Blood Evidence

**Note:** alright gang...here's the new chapter. Sorry for the delay...the computer has been prime real estate in my house this last week...and my dad has quite often won the battle...but with no more delay...here we go! (just for noting...this is probably my favorite chapter)

* * *

**Chapter Twelve** – Blood Evidence

* * *

Emily Harris's breathing was deep and even; her sleep free of dreams, free of pain. The pseudo-leather chair in which Nick sat was hard, his back muscles screamed at him as he leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his chin resting in the palm of his right hand, his eyes resting on the sleeping girl. 

He was tired three ways from Saturday. Physically. Mentally. Emotionally.

Emily's words, her voice, were haunting. They resonated in his head. The fear in her eyes made his heart ache, made him long to take her in his arms and promise her everything would be okay. Everything within him wanted, _needed_, to help take her pain away.

But, he couldn't do that.

He couldn't promise her things would be okay.

How _could_ he when _he_ himself didn't know that they would be?

He couldn't make her pain go away.

How _could_ he when _he_ himself still struggled with so much of his own pain?

He couldn't offer her hope.

How _could_ he when _he'd_ yet to really experience it himself?

Watching her sleep, the moments of peace, however brief they may be, were enough to bring balance to the chaos of his world, a chaos that had suddenly come crashing down into this little girl's life, corrupting it forever. It was that peace, it was that balance within the still quiet of the hospital room that had all of a sudden become deafening, suffocating, and compressing. He could feel his chest tightening, his ear drums pounding against the overpowering silence, his brain screaming out against the void.

He had to get out, if only for a minute, he had to get away. Yet there was something holding him back, keeping him steadfast in his watch over the child. There was a power, a bond. He'd do anything to hold onto that, to keep it from fading.

Standing from his chair he bent and grabbed his field kit. In all honesty, he really needed to get back to the lab. There was evidence to process. The case could be break any minute and he wanted to be there when it did.

"You leaving?" the soft, sweet voice of Emily asked. Her eyes were open, boring into his.

"I have to get back to work," he nodded, his eyes full of tenderness as they gazed upon the child. "I'll be back, though."

"Promise?" she asked, her eyes drifting closed once more.

"Promise," he smiled, his hand smoothing back the child's thin hair.

Turning slowly, reluctant to break his connection with her, he left the room, quietly latching the door behind him.

"Headed back to work?" Sam asked as he passed the nurse's station.

He nodded, not trusting the stability of his voice.

"Coming back?"

Another silent nod.

He really had to get out of there. He had to get away.

Quickly, he turned his focus to the elevators, willing his feet to move, to carry him to his one and only way out.

The heavy elevator doors slid open and he stepped inside the empty vault. Pushing the button for the first floor, he immediately pushed the stop button, ceasing the lift's decent, halting it between floors. Leaning heavily against the wall, he crumbled to the floor, pulling his knees to his chest. He felt weighted, unable to handle the heavy load. Tears, the tears he'd worked so hard to hold back, silently rolled down his face, flowing freely, as he leaned his head back on the wall, the thud of its impact echoing slightly.

Everything within him ached for Emily Harris, for her family.

How could such a small child be so strong, so brave?

How could _he_ be so scared?

Scared that he may never have answers?

Scared that he may lose?

But most of all, scared that Emily may never know real peace ever again?

That _he_ may never know real peace ever again?

The sob he'd been working so hard to hold in, finally found its escape piercing the silence of the empty elevator, ringing hollow in his ears.

The dam was broken.

_He_ was broken.

He let his emotions take over. He let the pain take over. He welcomed the release.

Everything within him longed to make things right, longed to find the bastard that brought the pain to Emily, that brought the indescribably fear to her eyes. Everything within him, everything that he was, cried for _her_, felt _her_ pain, _her_ fear.

Time passed.

Forgotten and alone, Nick sat with his eyes closed. Slowly, he felt his pain ebb away, replaced by the drive of anger rising within him, a fire of determination.

He _would_ bring peace to Emily. He would find the answers he so needed to find, the answers he needed to be able to provide.

Slowly standing he pressed the button resuming the elevators descent. Swiping his hand across his face, he rubbed at his eyes, rubbing the tears away. He exited on the first floor, amid looks of disgust and impatience.

He had one stop to make before he returned to the lab.

There was one thing he knew only he could do. There was one answer only he could get, and there was only one way he knew to get it.

* * *

"Cynthia Glover was at the Harris's house last night," Sara burst into Grissom's office. 

"Say what?" Brass asked nearly jumping from his seat at the surprise of the CSI's abrupt entrance.

"She was at their house," she said again, her eyes wild with the intensity of a possible lead in the case.

"Wait a second, slow down. How do you know?" Grissom raised a hand, hoping it would bring calm over the female before him.

"Greg just told me," she smiled taking a seat next to the detective. "The shoeprints we found outside the garage window?" she started, nods from the detective and supervisor urging her to get to the point. "He said they were a female, size ten."

"Right," Grissom nodded, the report still sitting on his desk was fresh in his mind.

"How does that lead you to Cynthia Glover?" Brass asked not yet picking up on the clue.

"Well, the impressions were of a pair of New Balance cross trainers. You were there when Greg said the _man_ would have to be around ninety pounds and maybe five feet tall," she looked a Brass who nodded in response. "_You_ saw Cynthia Glover, how much would you say she weighs?"

"No more than a hundred pounds," the detective's eyes lit up.

"She was wearing a jogging suit when she came in tonight. You think she likes to go for walks?"

"Maybe late night ones," Brass smirked.

"Maybe she took a walk over to her neighbor's house?" Grissom raised an eyebrow.

"Let's go find out," Brass stood from his seat. Sara quickly flashed a grin to her boss and followed the detective into the halls of CSI.

"Hey Sara, I thought you were helping me!" Greg called from the garage as he watched Sara shuffle down the hall. He laughed as Sara quickly turned, raising her hands offering a silent apology, and quickly picked back up on Brass's trail.

* * *

"Seventy percent of patients waiting for bone marrow transplants die waiting," Sam said. She sat with Nick in the hospital cafeteria. It was nearing the seven o'clock hour and the dinner crowds were finally starting to dwindle. "Chances of finding a donor…" she trailed off taking a drink from her water bottle. "The fact that Emily has been waiting for four months now, well it doesn't make her chances any more likely." 

"What do I have to do?" Nick asked.

There was a look in his eyes that sent chills up the nurse's spine. It was a look of unfailing and unwavering determination.

"What, to be a _donor_? Nick, chances of you matching Emily specifically are…are astronomical at best."

"_What_ do I _have_ to do?" he asked again.

"Well…" she sighed in resignation, "there's preliminary blood work for starters," she started. "A blood sample will have to be taken and tested for compatible HLA types."

"HLA?"

"It's the Human Leukocyte Antigen," she explained with a nod. "If you're a match, and that's a _big_ if, then there will be more blood tests. Your blood will be compared with the patients to determine further compatibility."

"And _if_ it's compatible?"

"Then you'll have a physical, some counseling sessions, and then eventually you'll be prepped for the procedure. But, Nick…"

"I want to help," he shook his head, not allowing her to finish her thought. He knew what she was going to say and nothing she could say would stop him.

There was _nothing_ that could stop him. This was something he had to do. He knew it wasn't a sure thing. He knew chances were slim of coming out a match, but he had to try.

He had to. For Emily. For her family.

"Can you do it? Can you help me?"

His eyes bore into hers. They were deep, an abyss full of emotion, full of…so much more than she could ever begin to understand. Whatever it was, it went so much deeper than anything she'd ever experienced.

She couldn't say no to him.

She nodded, her blue eyes holding his gaze.

"Look, maybe I shouldn't be asking this, but…why are you doing this? Why do _this_?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, her eyes full of sympathy for the man sitting in front of her. As soon as the question was asked, though, she'd wished she hadn't. It was the first time since they'd been sitting there that he had broken his gaze from hers.

Slowly, he tried to form the words to his answer. But he couldn't. Everything that pushed him, everything that told him to do this…there wasn't a single word to define it. It wasn't a word. It was a _feeling_. A feeling he couldn't describe pitted deep in his stomach.

Why _was_ he doing this?

He grabbed at the bottle of water he'd yet to open since he'd called Sam and asked her to meet him in the cafeteria. Fumbling with the cap, he finally managed to unscrew it. Bringing the bottle to his dry lips, he tilted his head back welcoming the cold wet as it hit the back of his parched throat.

"Nick," she tried again.

He shook his head, not able to trust his voice.

"I'd love to help you…" she started, leaning back against the booth in which she sat.

"Everyday…" he tested his voice. "Everyday I meet one more person I was too late to help, I was too late to save," he kept his eyes on the table in front of him. "Everyday."

When he did lift his eyes, the pain she saw within them was almost too much for her to bear. In her years as a pediatric nurse, she'd met parents on the brink of losing their children. The pain she'd seen in their eyes was unimaginable, indescribable, and unthinkable. But, the pain she was met with now, the pain she saw in Nick's eyes was so much more. Somehow, it went so much deeper.

"Every once in a while, there's one person…" he felt his voice catching. He could kick himself for cracking in front of her. "Every once in a while there's one person we can help, one life we can help bring back into balance."

It hadn't been what he wanted to say. No, what he really wanted to say, what he really wanted this nurse, this girl, to understand was so much more. What he really wanted to tell her, to make her see was everything he couldn't get out of his mind.

The urine stained floor.

The blood spattered walls.

The massacred family.

The scared little girl lying lonely and orphaned in a dark hospital room.

"This…this is just something I need to do," he shook his head.

That determination slowly re-surfaced, shining through the layers of pain.

"Okay," she nodded. "I'll do everything I can to help."

* * *

The sun was setting as Nick made his way back to the lab. After giving Grissom a call he made a run by his place for a quick shower and a clean change of clothes. He knew he'd be going straight through the night, and most likely into the next morning, so he had to grab what down time he could _whenever_ he could. A quick shower was about as good as things were going to get for the next twelve hours or so. 

Now driving down Boulder Highway, he felt refreshed, ready, for the most part, to tackle the evidence waiting for him back at the lab.

Traffic was surprisingly light as he pulled into the lab parking lot. Finding an empty space, he pulled the Denali to a stop and climbed down grabbing his field kit from the back seat. The air was quickly becoming cool as the sun sank in the west, making him grateful for the black fleece he now wore.

The air inside the lab was only slightly warmer than outside.

"Hey Nicky," Catherine smiled falling into step with him as he walked past reception. "How's the little girl?"

"Sleeping when I left," he responded taking in the files in her hand. "What've you got?"

"Photos from the scene. Listen, where you headed right now?

"Uh…DNA. Why?"

"I'm really backed up here. I've got to get this to Grissom, think you could check up on the results from the cigarette Sara collected from the scene?"

"I thought she was on it."

"Yeah, well she and Brass are out chasing old ladies," she shook her head, "she asked me to do it, but I'm kind of in a corner."

"Yeah, sure," he nodded stopping just outside the DNA lab watching as Catherine picked up her pace and headed on down the hall.

Wendy Simms busied herself setting up the Mass Spectrometer, her back to Nick as he entered the quiet lab.

"Hey Wendy," he said, his eyes on the evidence in his hand, as he walked up beside her leaning back against the counter. "I've got a couple samples for you to run."

There was no response from the lab tech, as her back was still turned to him.

"Uh…Wendy?" he looked up now. The lab tech was consumed in her work, completely unaware of his presence. "Wendy," he tried again a little louder, a grin crossing his face as he noticed the lady's head bobbing. It was then he noticed the white ear buds clogging her ears. Carefully reaching over her shoulder, he pulled gently on the chord dangling from her right ear dislodging the device from her ear.

"What the…" she swung around. "Shit Nick!" she exclaimed pressing a hand to her chest.

"Hey," he raised his hands in defense, "I tried getting your attention," he smiled, trying hard to stifle his laughter.

"Damn it," she finally let out the breath she'd been holding, turning back to the task at hand. "Now I'm going to have to start all over with this. Damn it; I could _kill_ Greg."

"_Greg_? What'd he do?"

"It was _his_ idea to listen to music while I worked," she shook her head, her attention back on the spectrometer.

"Yeah, that figures," he smiled. "Look, I've got a couple samples for you to run," he said again. "I got a DNA sample from Emily Harris," he laid the two swabs on the counter.

"Why two swabs?"

"I took a sample of my own to show her how it's done. Need you to distinguish which is mine and which is hers," he shrugged.

"You didn't label them?"

He shook his head, his eyes scanning the lab.

"Did you…uh…did you get the results done on that cigarette Sara gave you?"

"Yeah, I thought she was picking it up."  
"She was, but the task got pushed to me. What'd you find out?"

"The sample I was able to obtain was minimal at best," she handed over the file. "But I got enough to work with. I ran the sample through CODIS, got a hit. It came back to a Jesse Overton."

"Damn," Nick shook his head, his eyes on the now open file in his hands.

"As it turns out, this guy has a record," she nodded turning to face the CSI. Her normally smooth appearance was somewhat frazzled, her brown hair, though pulled back in a ponytail, hung loosely at the nape of her neck.

"Yeah, I know him," he offered a heavy sigh.

"Well, I kicked the cigarette over to trace."

"Okay. Look, run the samples I gave you, and then compare Emily Harris' DNA to the samples I gave you from her room. Page me when you know something?" he pushed his weight off the counter.

"You got it."

"Oh, anything on those hairs yet?" he stopped just short of the door.

"I'm working on it."

Quickly, with the weight of the new evidence fresh in his hands, he worked his way down the hall. He needed to get this information to Grissom.

* * *

"Check out this void," Catherine shook her head as she leaned against Grissom's desk. Silently, Nick leaned into the door jam. Watching. Waiting. "From this spray pattern, Mr. Harris tried fighting back." 

"That would explain the defensive wounds Doc found on his hands," Grissom nodded, now aware of Nick's presence.

"The killer was standing in front of them as he killed them, just watching…watching them die," she said, disgust and anger thick in her voice.

"What'd you find out?" the supervisor asked alerting Catherine to the man in the doorway.

"Well, Emily Harris didn't see much. She saw a man with brown hair, but that's all she could give me," Nick entered the office, taking a seat in front of the desk. "I just got DNA back on the cigarette Sara pulled from the back yard. Matched Jesse Overton," he entered the office handing Grissom the file.

"You're kidding," Catherine read over the supervisor's shoulder. "I thought you said he was still in prison."

"He is. He still has about five years before he's eligible even for an appeal," Nick nodded. "Wendy kicked the cigarette over to Hodges."

"If Jesse Overton is still in prison, how did his DNA get on a cigarette in the Harris's backyard?" Catherine asked.

"That's a good question," Grissom nodded pulling out his cell phone. "Only one way to find out."

"Go ask him?" Nick asked.

"Go ask him," Grissom nodded.


	13. Cold Degradation

**

* * *

****Chapter Thirteen** – Cold Degradation

* * *

Brass rang the doorbell for a third time. From the sounds of things, namely the loud volume of the television coming from within the Glover residence, Wheel of Fortune was in full swing. Banging on the door, after the doorbell had consistently gone unheeded, the detective let out a series of expletives, cursing the elderly and their poor hearing. 

Sara cast a weary gaze of wonder upon the detective. "Maybe they're not home?" she pursed her lips in a smile.

"Harold must be hard of hearing," Brass smirked as he noticed a shuffle just the other side of the door. "Las Vegas Police," he called out when there was an apparent hesitation to open the door.

Slowly the door eased back, a crack of light streaming through, casting the detective and CSI in a yellow glow.

"Detective Brass," Mrs. Glover smiled. "What a surprise. Please come in, come in. Hello Ms. Sidle. Harold!" she called toward the back of the house, with surprising force, "The police are here! Now, what can I do for you?" she asked pleasantly as she closed the door behind them. "You have some more questions?"

"Just one," the detective nodded glancing at Sara, giving her the go ahead.

"Oh, where are my manners? Please come on in," she motioned them into the living room.

The room was a cozy one warmly lit by two small tabletop lamps. The white walls reflected the warm lighting effectively adding to the room's inviting feel. A large picture window, much like in the Harris's home, looked out over the front yard. An intricately carved drop-leaf cherry table sat just under the window, the top of which was covered with dozens of framed photos. The wall opposite the window was occupied by a gaudy floral patterned sofa. Two matching upholstered chairs, flanking both ends of the sofa, were angled inward toward the room. A marble topped coffee table sat front and center to the sofa, a large print edition of the Holy Bible sat centered on the marble. The far back corner of the room was home to a massive armoire, used for housing an impressive collection of china and sterling silver flatware. The white wall-to-wall carpeting only added to the coziness of the room.

"Can I get you anything? A cup of tea perhaps?"

"Oh, no. Thank you," Sara managed a smile.

"Sit, sit," the old lady smiled taking a seat in the nearest chair. "You'll have to excuse the mess. I've been running around like crazy trying to straighten things up, but Harold keeps dirtying it up again."

Sara and Brass followed suit, taking up residence on the sofa, of which the detective was surprised not to find covered in plastic.

"Now what did you want to ask me?"

"Do you take evening walks Mrs. Glover?" Brass asked.

"The doctor has been on Harold to get some exercise. His cholesterol, you know."

"So, you and your husband take walks?"

"Well, yes," she answered with a nod. "But we normally go out each morning, you know before it gets hot."

"Uh huh. What kind of cross trainers do you wear?" the detective asked, his eyes involuntarily falling to take in the lady's slipper-clad feet.

"Cross trainers?" she asked confused.

"Walking shoes."

"Oh, well…" she hesitated. "I don't know the brand exactly. I could go get them and show them to you."

"Why don't you do that?" Brass nodded.

He and Sara watched as the elderly woman pushed up, with seemingly great effort, from her chair and shuffled off down the hall.

Coming from the back of the house they could still hear, with unbelievable clarity, the sounds of the household's favorite game show.

_I'd like to buy a vowel…an O please._

The detective cast a gaze at the CSI beside him. She looked uncomfortable. Hell, she looked downright miserable. It took everything within him not to make a snide comment about the sheer volume of the television, though the sofa they were sitting on was material enough to come up with at least a dozen wise cracks. Thinking better of the situation, though, he kept his mouth shut.

Rising from his position on the couch the detective walked across to room to the table. "Looks like they've got over a dozen grandkids here," he said picking up a photo that caught his eye. "Hey, check this out," he motioned with his head for Sara to join him.

"Cynthia and Harold with the Harris kids," Sara took the frame from the man. "Looks like they were close."

"Yeah it does. Kind of beats our suspect theory all to hell," he offered a tight lipped grin.

"Now, these shoes," Mrs. Glover was saying as she shuffled back into the room, "were on sale down at _The_ _Athlete's Foot_ over on Sahara Avenue," she smiled handing the shoes to the detective, who handed them to the CSI.

"New Balance, size ten," she smiled holding a photo of the shoe print in hand.

"I've always had rather large feet," the lady said sheepishly. "My mother could never keep me in a pair of shoes. You can imagine the time she had, what during the depression and all."

Looking from the detective to Mrs. Glover Sara said, "We found a set of footprints outside the window to the Harris's garage. You were in their yard the night they were killed."

"Care to tell us what you were doing?" the detective asked with a raise of an eyebrow.

"Well," she started, her face blushing three shades of red, "around ten o'clock I called the Frank and Diane to see how little Emily was doing. I knew they had taken her to the doctor earlier that day. When they didn't answer the phone, I thought it odd and started to worry that maybe Emily had taken a turn for the worse. You know how it is, detective, a nosy old woman like myself. Plus, those children are so dear to me and Harold. Why, we're both beside ourselves with grief over this whole ordeal. Anyway, when they didn't answer their phone, I walked over to the side of their house. When I saw their cars were in the garage, well I just assumed they had just gone to bed early. I assumed they'd had a long day."

"So, what'd you do after that?" he asked.

"Well, I came back inside," she shrugged, her eyes suddenly becoming wide, a look of horror crossing her face. "Wait…you don't mean to say they were already…" she couldn't finish the sentence. Brass's quick reaction, his arm quickly latching on around the woman's small frame, was the only thing that kept her from crashing to the ground.

"Mrs. Glover, what did you do after you came back in?" he eased her into a chair, crouching in front of her.

"Well…I made myself a cup of tea, decaffeinated, and I went to bed," she shrugged.

"Why didn't you tell us this earlier?"

"Well, honestly it had slipped my mind."

"Is that so?"

"Harold got upset with me about it," she nodded. "He hates it when I go snooping. The ladies in my garden club always come to me for all the latest gossip. I can't imagine the talk there will be this week," she sighed placing a shriveled hand on her cheek.

"Mrs. Glover is there anything else that might have _slipped_ your mind?" he asked as his cell phone rang. "Excuse me," he raised a hand in apology as he reached for his mobile. Stepping across the room he answered it on the third ring.

_"We got a hit on the DNA off the cigarette."_

"Who?"

_"Jesse Overton."_

"Well, _that's_ different." Quickly he shot a glance toward Sara who was tucked firm in the grasp of Mrs. Glover and her hundred photos as they hovered over the table of family photos.

_"Nick just handed me the report."_

"It's what…almost eight," the detective looked at his watch. "Alright, Sara and I are just about done here. I'll meet you back at the lab and we'll pay the kid a late night visit."

_"I've already put a call in to the warden."_

Quickly he ended the call and turned back to his hostess. She was busy diving into a story of the latest antics of her youngest grandchild. Sara looked as if she was about to jump out of her skin.

"Sorry, about that," he smiled wryly as he rejoined them. "Where were we? Oh, right, was there anything else you wanted to add to your statement?"

"I don't think so detective," the little woman shook her head, her eyes wide with innocence and concern.

"Well, if you should think of anything," he nodded handing her a business card with his name and phone number emblazoned on the front, "give me a call."

Slowly he and Sara worked their way toward the front door.

"Detective," the little lady stopped them, "you _will_ find the man that did this."

"We're doing everything we can, ma'am," he nodded stepping outside.

The evening air was refreshing, like a quick rush of adrenaline, after sitting in the near eighty degree heat inside the Glover home.

"Well," Sara offered a sardonic grin as she stepped off the front porch step, "_that_ was helpful."

"Damn, I hate old people," the detective cringed as he walked alongside the CSI to his Taurus. "And why'd she keep telling me I know how it is? She's at least twice my age."

"You want I should drive?" Sara pursed her lips crossing her arms across her chest as she paused at the car. "I mean, you know how it is, right, old people behind the wheel?"

"Hey, you want to _walk_ back to the lab?" he glared at her as they climbed into the car.

"Hey, I thought you'd heard. Crime rate's up in this neighborhood?" she fastened her seatbelt.

"You're packing. You're good to go," he started the ignition. "Hell, I'd feel sorry for anyone that tried to cross you _without_ your piece."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Hey, I've seen the Sidle glare; it is _not_ a pretty thing to be caught in. Plus you're trained in weaponless defense. No way _I'm_ gonna cross you."

"Can we just get going?" she shook her head, a smile teasing the corner of her mouth. "I've got evidence to process."

* * *

"What's up bro?" Warrick asked sauntering into the layout room. It was half past eight. Nick had his head buried under stacks of papers as he busied himself going over the Harris adoption files. 

"Hey, where have you been?" Nick nodded glancing up from the papers in front of him.

"Ah, I went home for a quick shower," he said leaning over the table, his arms supporting his weight. "Looks like a triple. Ecklie's gonna love all this overtime we're clockin'. What have you got here?"

"I'm just looking over the case files for Nathan and Hannah Harris."

"Their adoption files? I thought Brass went over all of this already.

"He did," Nick nodded his eyes back on the paper in his hand. "I just thought I'd look over them while I was waiting for Hodges to get with me on the cigarette Sara found."

"You finding anything?" he asked pulling a stool up to the backlit table.

"Nothing yet."

"Want some help?"

"You got the time?" Nick nodded handing a folder over.

"Hand me some," Warrick nodded reaching for a file and opening it. "So," he sighed skimming down the first page, "I heard you got a DNA hit off the cigarette."

"Yeah, Jesse Overton," Nick nodded. "You know, I don't get it. He's barely five years into his twenty-five. How does a cigarette with his DNA on it get placed at our crime scene?"

"Easy, it was planted. You remember the case we had a couple years ago, the planted evidence. Some guy took some cigarettes from a public ash tray, planted them on the scene."

"Yeah," he nodded, "I remember. The guy paid a couple kids to kill a couple."

"Sounds like the same thing here. The cigarette was planted," Warrick shrugged. "So that means…"

"That means someone had access to Jesse Overton _and_ his cigarettes."

"He still smokin' those Bidis?"

"What's up guys? Having a little powwow? Talking scores from last night's game? What?" Hodges smiled as he entered the layout room.

Did he think this was the gossip corner?

Warrick, casting a perturbed look toward Nick, leaned forward resting his forearms on the table and turned his attention back to the lab tech. The man was a grade A, top class kiss ass. Ecklie's puppet. And damn, if he wasn't an expert at getting under everyone's skin as well. "Hodges, let me ask you something, professional to professional, man to man. Now, I want your _expert_ opinion on this. You've been working here for what, three, four years? So you've got some skills as a CSI, right?"

"Why, thank you Warrick. It's about time you guys see the value of my employment. I was beginning to feel underappreciated. Yes, I'd like to think so," he nodded with a pleased smile as he laid the file in his hand on the table.

"Alright, check this. Two people, say me and Nicky here, are having a relatively intelligent conversation," he glanced at Nick, who returned an animated smile. "Now, what would it take, do you think, for us to _seriously_ consider, telling, oh _you_, what we're talking about?"

The tech sneered at the CSIs, "Okay. I can take a hint. I just _thought_, since I was in this part of the lab, I'd let you know what I found on the cigarette."

"What'd you get?" Nick asked his interest perked.

"It's more like what I _didn't_ get," he said handing over the file he'd carried with him into the room. "Wendy said DNA was minimal, right? Well, so was everything else. There was no evidence that this cigarette had been smoked within the past _week_, let alone within the last twenty four hours."

"What are you saying? This cigarette is over a week old?"

"At least," the surly tech nodded. "Based on the degradation of the filter, and the tobacco, I'd say it was smoked at least two weeks ago."

"Okay, thanks Hodges," Nick nodded looking over the report the tech had handed him. "Oh hey, Hodges," he called catching the tech before he'd gone out of earshot. "By the way, what _were_ the scores last night?" he smiled reaching for his cell phone. "We've all been busy here."

"Ha-Ha, you think you're funny?"

"Oh, _I_ think he is," Warrick laughed as the trace lab tech grimaced and walked away.

"Hey Griss, its Nick," the CSI spoke into his phone upon dialing up the supervising CSI. "We just got the report back from Hodges on the cigarette. It's a Bidi."

"_Just like the one from the Collins case?"_ Grissom asked. He was seated in the front seat of Brass' Taurus. The detective had just dropped Sara back at the lab, and Grissom had jumped in for the ride to the men's correctional facility.

"Almost. This one hasn't been smoked recently."

"_How long?"_

"Based on the degradation, Hodges estimates two weeks."

"_Brass and I are on our way to see Jesse Overton now."_

"Hey Griss, chances are this kid doesn't have a clue how a cigarette with his DNA got on our scene. I mean, you remember how public the Collins case was. Anyone could know we found a cigarette at that scene."

"_Yeah, well we've got a court order for all visitor logs within the past three months," _Grissom said. _"Maybe our killer paid a visit to our local state prison."_

"Public areas are required to have ash trays, right?"

"_Yeah. I'll check into it."_

Nick ended the call, his attention falling back to the adoption case files.

"Did both of these cases have the same case worker?" Warrick asked flipping through several pages.

"I think so," Nick nodded. "Yeah."

"Who?"

"Uh…Ted Goggle," Nick rested his elbows on the backlit tabletop subsequently rubbing his tired eyes.

"Ted Goggle?"

"Yeah, why? You know him?"

"_Of _him. I had a run in with him around the same time as the Collins case," he shook his head."

"Hey guys," Sara smiled entering the room. "I heard you got the results on the cigarette?"

"Yeah, Grissom and Brass are following up," Nick nodded stifling a yawn. "What have you been up to?"

"Oh, I just got back from interviewing a witness. Made a match to the shoeprints Greg lifted from the scene."

"You guys talking about me?" Greg smiled entering the room upon hearing his name mentioned. The man looked worn down and tired.

"Sara was just telling us she made a match to the shoeprints you found," Warrick informed.

"Anyway," Sara nodded, "they belonged to the Harris's neighbor, Cynthia Glover. She's like a surrogate grandmother to the Harris kids. Said she got concerned when they didn't answer the phone when she called, was afraid maybe they'd taken Emily to the hospital."

"So, what? She walks out and takes a peep in the garage window?" Warrick asked his brow puckered.

"Nosey old women," Nick said raising his arms above his head working to stretch his back muscles.

"You guys up for a break?" Catherine asked poking her head in the layout room.

"You got something?" Sara turned at the sound of their colleague's voice.

"Try seven cups of coffee and about a dozen sandwiches," she nodded with a smile turning and heading to the break room.

"Food?" Greg smiled, his ears perking up at the word.

"I figured you guys have been working nonstop for the past eighteen hours," she shrugged as they entered the break room.

The smell of Starbucks coffee filled the air, tantalizing their senses.

"Where's Grissom?" she asked.

"On his way to prison," Warrick said handing out the coffee as he collapsed into a chair.

"He and Brass are paying a visit to Jesse Overton," Nick added.

"Jesse Overton?"

"Yeah, DNA on the cigarette matches the kid. He and Brass are going to question him," he nodded.

"Well, I guess one of us has to stay on the job," she shrugged taking a bite from her turkey on rye.

Outside, the hallways bustled with the usual shift change activity. It was just getting to be the start of regular graveyard hours.

Sitting back in his chair, Nick relished in the warmth of the black liquor as it warmed him from the inside out. He was just beginning to relax, to find his happy place, when his cell phone rang, startling him back to his sleepless reality. Checking the caller ID, he excused himself from the table to take the call privately.

"Stokes," he answered on the fourth ring as he exited the lab. The night air had a bite to it; the temperatures had dropped drastically since the last time he'd been out.

"_Hey Nick, this is Sam,"_ the charming sound of the nurse's voice rang in his ear, filling his every sense._ "I've got the results from your blood test…"_ she trailed off.

Nick instantly felt his stomach tighten, taking an unrelenting grip on him from within, threatening to end him. Slowly he lowered himself, taking a seat on the curb facing the parking lot.

"_You're not going to believe this,"_ she continued. Was that a smile in her voice? _"I…I can barely believe it. We, uh, we compared your blood to Emily's. You're a preliminary match."_


	14. Split Hairs

**Note:** Special thanks to those who took time to review! Enjoy this next chapter! I won't be able to update until next Tuesday since I'm headed out of town for the weekend. Hopefully this will scratch the itch until then! Peace!

* * *

**Chapter Fourteen** – Split Hairs

* * *

It was nearly mid shift, the three o'clock hour laughed mockingly at the graveyard supervisor as he refilled his cup of coffee. The ceramic object had recently seemed a permanent extension of his left hand. Idly he flexed the sore muscles in his hand, of which seemed fixed in the perpetual shape of a clenched fist. The tendons were sore and stiff. The combination of continuous computer time, paperwork, and the mass quantities of coffee consumption were resulting in the onslaught of carpal tunnel and tendonitis. Damn, it was hard getting old.

Turning his back to the coffee maker, he let his eyes fall back on the table and the array of papers covering it. He'd thought moving to the break room, from his office, would have be a good choice, a way of jumpstarting his mental processes. It had only worked, thus far, to accentuate the dull throbbing of his head and to feed his coffee addiction.

"How'd it go?" Catherine raised the question as she found the entomologist gazing over his spread of papers. She'd yet to catch up with him since his visit with Jesse Overton. He'd been back in the lab for nearly an hour, but she'd been holed up in her office reviewing blood patterns and comparing DNA results.

Grissom, himself, looked uncharacteristically tired, his black attire looking slightly rumpled, as he took a seat at the table, an apple hanging in the grip of the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. When had been the last time the man had showered or even seen daylight?

"Where have you been?" he lifted his gaze taking in the woman's disturbingly refreshed appearance.

"Well, in my office for the past half hour. You weren't around, and most of us were just playing a waiting game around here. So, I took a few, went home, took a shower, caught up with Lindsey," she shrugged taking a seat across the table. "So…"

"Jesse Overton has _no idea_ how his DNA got onto our crime scene," he sighed leaning back in his chair. Taking a bite of his apple he cringed. "Damn," he grabbed feverishly for something to spit in. Taking a napkin offered by the woman across from him, he quickly spit out the mealy piece of fruit.

"Rotten?" Catherine asked with a slightly amused look on her face.

Taking little heed of her question he reached for his still steaming mug of coffee. The semi-sweet bitterness of the black concoction may not have been his first choice, but anything to get the taste from his mouth.

"So what _is_ all of this?" Catherine stifled a grin, her eyes scanning the collection of information before her.

"Prison sign in sheets. I got the visitor's log from the last three months. Jesse Overton has been incarcerated for the past four and a half, almost five years."

"So, someone had to _put_ his DNA at the scene," Catherine nodded picking up on the man's trail of thinking.

"It's not like he's had the opportunity. I was hoping maybe to find a name, maybe someone to connect all the pieces."

"Makes sense," she nodded taking a few pages in her hand. "The only way to get DNA is to go to the source. If he didn't _give_ it to someone, then someone _took_ it. The question now is; how?"

"There are ashtrays _all over_ the place in the public areas," Grissom nodded, "on every table in the visitation room, in the rec. areas."

"Nice little advertisement for the tobacco companies. I'm sure they make a pretty penny from the prison system. You can destroy your own health; just don't want to destroy the pleasant environment of our state penitentiary. The government hates a litter bugs. So, all someone had to do was wait for him to put out his butt," Catherine shook her head.

"If they didn't know him and just take it from him," Grissom nodded.

Silently they resumed their search through the lists of names and signatures. Minutes ticked away, the list of names becoming more blurred as the man battled a fatigue driven migraine. _Damn_ he was tired.

"Hang on a second," Catherine sat up a little straighter, her attention drawn hard to the paper in her hands.

"Hmm?"

"You looked over the adoption files, right?" she asked her eyes narrowing in further concentration.

"Yeah," he nodded keeping his eyes on the list in front of him. "I handed them off to Nick."

"Who was the social worker?"

"Goggle…uh…Ted Goggle," he shook his head.

"Why would the Harris's social worker need to visit the men's correctional facility?" she asked handing the papers over to the supervisor. "Two weeks ago, Ted Goggle signed in at ten o'clock in the morning. Guess who he signed in to visit?"

"Hey guys," Nick entered the room. "I've got something. Wendy finished analyzing the blood I collected from Emily Harris' bedroom. It's a mixture of Frank and Diane Harris."

"That doesn't make any sense," Catherine shook her head.

"It does if the killer went into her room…" Nick shrugged taking a seat at the end of the table at which the co-supervisors sat. "Emily hid in the closet. The killer went in looking for her _after_ he killed the rest of the family. She told me he came in.

"I also got the results back on the hairs I collected. Got a hit off CODIS, a Ted Goggle. I had Wendy compare the hair samples to the DNA collected from the mother and daughter? They were a match," he handed the reports to Grissom.

"This guy has a _record_?" Catherine asked craning her neck to see the results.

"Well, every social worker in Vegas is required to have their fingerprints and DNA on file," Nick shrugged. "Child Services does extensive background checks on all their employees."

"Wait…so this guy what…rapes the females and then just _kills_ the entire family? Wait, hold on a second," Catherine raised a hand remembering what she was trying to tell Grissom when Nick had entered the room derailing her train of thought. "Wait, Gil, I _know_ this guy. Back during the Collins case, he was assigned to my case."

"What case?" Grissom furrowed his brow in confusion. "Catherine, we were all on the same case for the Collins murders."

"No," she hesitated. "He was assigned to…investigate me," she sighed. "Eddie filed a complaint when I was late picking Lindsay up from dance class," she shook her head. "Ted Goggle was the worker assigned to my case."

_She'd been working the blood drops from the Collins case, trying to get a read on what had happened that night. The man entering the garage behind her had taken her by surprise._

"_Catherine Willows?"_

_"Who's asking?" she turned abruptly, taking in the sight of the man before her. He was rather gangly. The glasses he wore did little to assuage his nerdy appearance. The comb over he'd attempted did even less to hide the fact that his hair was thinning. His rather meek appearance would have been humorous had it been under any other circumstances._

_"Ted Goggle. I'm with Family Services," he stammered, fidgeting with his glasses as he shifted his weight from foot to foot. "Were…are you working the Collins case?" he asked intrigued by the photos behind the CSI._

_"You know, your department can't seem to get things straight. If you're looking for the little girl, she's already got a caseworker."_

_"Actually, I'm inquiring about _your_ little girl."_

_"My Lindsay? Why? What are you talking about?"_

_"Your husband, Eddie, filed a report. Says you neglected to pick your daughter up after dance class last night. That you routinely neglect her for your job."_

_What the hell was this guy talking about?_

_"Is this Eddie's idea of a joke?" she asked, her hands on her hips. "What, are you in one of his bands?" _

_"I already made a field visit to your house. Here's the form," he handed over a file folder. "Lindsay seems okay but there is going to be an investigation as to whether there was parental neglect. You're on notice."_

_Silently, stunned, she watched as the man turned and left the garage._

It had been the worst day of her life, the worst three weeks of her life. The fear of losing her daughter, the thought of not seeing her everyday ripped at her insides. And now this turn in the case was only aiding in her reliving of that hell.

"So, Goggle knew of the Collins case?" Grissom asked laying his glasses on the table. The Excedrin he'd taken hours ago was beginning to wear off.

"Come on Griss, _everyone_ knew about the Collins case," Nick sighed leaning back in his chair. "The story hit the news before we even finished processing the scene."

"Yes, but not _everyone_ who knew about the Collins case has their DNA on file matching DNA from our crime scene," Grissom raised a brow.

"A crime scene damn near identical to that of the Collins murders," Catherine nodded.

"Still, the question begs to be asked. What was Ted Goggle doing at the prison?" Nick shrugged.

"Getting a sample of Jesse Overton's DNA," Catherine smirked. "Was there any other sample lifted from the cigarette?" she directed her question toward Nick.  
"No," he shook his head. "The rain had nearly decimated it. We were lucky to get what we got."

"Hey, Grissom," Archie Johnson stopped in the doorway of the break room. "You got a second?"

"What is it Archie?"

"I think I've got something on the videos you brought in," he turned leading the small parade of CSIs to the A/V Lab. "It's not much, but I've gone through most of the footage and there's something you need to see."

"Cue it up," Nick said standing next to the computer whiz.

"Okay, first this is video of Emily's school play," he cued the video freezing the frame. "Now, this is video of Hannah's dance recital," he froze the image, "and this is of Nathan's last baseball game. All were filmed within two weeks of each other all within the last month and a half."

"What are we looking at?" Catherine asked.

"The audience," Grissom smiled.

Archie nodded. "The same guy shows up in each frame."

"And look at that, he's got brown hair," Nick smiled taking in the sight of the wiry looking man. If he'd have blinked he would have missed the man sitting five rows behind the Harris family. The balding man shrunk back into his chair, obviously working to blend in.

"I froze his image, ran it through the DMV database," Archie picked up. "He came back Ted Goggle."

"Good work, Archie," Grissom nodded turning to leave the viewing room.

"Gil," Catherine turned quickly, trying to keep up with the man's pace.

"We need a warrant for Ted Goggle's house," he said quickly entering his office. Fumbling for his phone, he quickly put in a call to Brass.

"Jim, its Gil. We need a warrant for Ted Goggle's residence."

_"What'd you all get?"_

"Among other things, his DNA on the victims," Grissom ended the call as Warrick entered the office, Nick, Sara, and Greg were quickly on his tail.

"Hey, Griss we've got a new case," Warrick informed. "Remember that case I told you about, the missing girl from Reno?"

"The one the Harris's were being investigated for," he nodded in response.

"Yeah, well, a witness just found the body of a little girl just off I-15."

"Yeah, but what are the chances it's the same missing girl?" Nick asked from the doorway. "I mean she's been missing what, almost a year?"

"Six months. That's what we need to find out," Warrick nodded. "I'm meeting Vartann at the scene."

"Okay, here's what we're going to do," Grissom took charge of the situation. "Warrick stay with this new case. Put a rush on DNA…everything. Brass is working up a warrant for Ted Goggle's house. Catherine, Nick, Sara and Greg you're with me. We have a house to process."

"Hey, Griss," Warrick stopped in the flurry of activity. "I've got a meeting with Chandler and Kao in…four hours," he looked at his watch.

"Who are they again?" Greg asked.

"They're the law firm that handled the Harris investigation."

"Okay," the supervisor nodded. "Let Vartann tag along. You may need him."

"You got it."

* * *

Nick easily pulled the Denali alongside the curb, killing the headlights and shutting off the ignition. Casting a gaze toward the dark house of interest and then toward Grissom in the passenger seat, he unhooked his seatbelt and climbed down from his seat into the cool night air. Sara, Greg and Catherine joined him quickly as they exited the vehicle they'd brought.

"You guys needed two cars?" Brass asked joining the CSIs outside the home of Ted Goggle. "I've had a couple uniforms sitting on the house for the past half hour." It was half past four. There was already a slight lightening of the sky off to the east. "They say it's been quiet. Nothing coming from the house."

The sprawling ranch style home was dark as it sat on its slightly less than lush lawn. The neighborhood in Henderson was quiet, still sleeping and seemingly unaware of the police presence, or simply numbed to it. Ted Goggle's house, like every other house on the street, was a one story white stucco structure. The red tile roof, a style taken by the majority of Las Vegas homes, looked worn, in need of some extensive repair. Paint was chipping from the house; evidence enough that it hadn't seen a fresh coat of lacquer within the past few years.

"It looks like nobody's home," the detective shook his head as the group congregated on the far side of the street. "I was waiting for you guys to find a way in."

"Uh…color me stupid but…have you tried the front door?" Greg asked with his hands buried deep in the pockets of his jeans.

"Gee, Greg, why didn't I think of that one?" Brass glared at the young CSI. "I checked the side window, there's no car in the garage. Where's Warrick?" he asked looking around as if just noticing the man's absence.

"Following a new case," Grissom said, his eyes on the dark form of a house across the street. "Body of a young girl was found off I-15. He's meeting Vartann at the scene."

"You thinking these cases are connected?"

"I don't know what to think," the man sighed leaning his tired body against the passenger side of the Denali that had brought them to the scene.

"So, how do we want to do this?" Nick asked.

Brass grinned slyly, "What the hell, let's try Greg's way. Let's go knock on the front door. I'm feeling a little frisky tonight."

"Thatta way boss," Nick grinned patting the detective on the shoulder as they headed toward the house. "Oh, hey just in case we need to do this the old fashioned way, did you, uh, bring the battering ram with you?"

"Damn, left it in my other pants," Brass shook his head as he and Nick crossed the road with the two uniformed officers. Catherine, Grissom, Sara and Greg waited at their vehicles. There was no need to overwhelm the man should he answer the door in his underwear. Five CSIs and a detective weren't exactly the keenest of wake-up calls.

The sidewalk leading to the front door was narrow, causing Nick to give Brass the lead to the front door, and it was the door that held their attention. The door, painted red to match the tile roofing, was slightly ajar clearly splintered at the lock. The darkness from inside did little to comfort the uneasy feeling slowly creeping over the CSI and detective.

"You got a pair of gloves?" Nick asked keeping his voice barely above a whisper. He was already pulling on a pair of his own.

The detective silently shook his head, a hand deftly reaching over his shoulder to receive the pair offered by the CSI. He quickly pulled on the pair of latex protectors subsequently reaching for his holstered weapon. Nick silently followed suit.

"You stay out here. We'll clear the scene," the detective kept his voice down.

Reaching the front stoop he rapped on the heavy wood barrier pushing it further open in the process.

"Mr. Goggle, Ted Goggle, Las Vegas Police," he called out taking a hesitant step inside the door. Nick stood just outside the house. He could feel the cold of the wall as he leaned his back against the white stucco. He watched the officers as they inched their way inside. Slowly he made his way through the entryway, keeping a careful eye on Brass as he moved deeper into the darkness, his flashlight raised to illuminate a path.

With a remarkable stealth the detective moved from room to room, clearing them as he went.

"He's not here," he let out a seemingly long sigh of relief as he returned to the CSI.

"_Someone's_ been here," Nick shook his head his Maglite scanning the chaos that engulfed the living quarters. The image of the room before them was a scene of total mayhem.

Slowly, he exited the room, joining the detective on the front stoop. He watched as Grissom and the others walked up the foot path to join them.

"Well, the house is empty," Brass informed, the tension in his shoulders clearly lessening as he talked with the group. "I'll put out a BOLO for Goggle's car while you guys start processing the mess inside," he thrust a thumb toward the open front door.

The group of criminalists turned toward the home.

"Well, Greg, I guess you were right," Grissom said, his eyes narrowed at the sight of the splintered wood. "We _can_ use the front door."

"Yeah," Greg nodded, an uncustomary response from the usually nerve ridden CSI, "but it looks like someone beat us to it."

"Yeah," Sara nodded, "but whom?"

"And what were they after?" Catherine added to the chorus of words.

"Ah," the supervisor furrowed his brow, "now _that's_ the real question, isn't it?"


	15. Storm Chasers

**

* * *

****Chapter Fifteen** – Storm Chasers

* * *

"Hey Super Dave," Warrick nodded as he sauntered into the morgue. "What have you got?"

David Phillips, the assistant coroner, stood beside the center metal slab. The body of the still unidentified girl lay lifeless atop the cold sterile surface. Her hair was wet, matted in a thick disarray of curls to her forehead. Her eyes closed, she looked as if she were only sleeping. The ashen color of her skin, though, told the story of her death; the dark bruises covering nearly fifty percent of her upper torso were a stark contrast to the paleness of her complexion. Night and day.

"COD is asphyxiation," David informed, "she was smothered."

"Ligature marks around the wrists and ankles," Warrick carefully picked up the girl's left hand. "She wasn't tied when _I_ got to the scene."

"No," the coroner shook his head. "Maybe the killer cut the bonds before he dumped the body. I…uh…found these fibers between her teeth."

"White, possibly cotton, fibers," Warrick shook his head upon receiving the small plastic bag of evidence from the assistant ME. "Virtually impossible to trace. I'll get them to Hodges. So what the hell happened to her?"

"Can't say for sure, but check out this bruise pattern on her back."

With a gentleness and care that came from years as a coroner, David slowly turned the girl on her side revealing the dark, prominent markings.

"Damn," Warrick shook his head as his eyes fell on the child's back. He bent at the waist to get a closer look. A large bruise covered the small expanse between the child's shoulders. "That looks like a shoe impression," the CSI cocked his head to the right, his eyes narrowed as he reached for the camera on the side table. "Maybe a size ten or eleven."

"Check out the coloration."

"They're fairly recent. Did you take fingernail scrapings?" The girl's clothes had already been collected and bagged. Warrick would work on processing them once he finished here.

"Already sent it to DNA," David nodded. "Any idea who she is?"

"I've got her photo and prints running through the missing persons database now. It could be a while," Warrick shook his head his eyes still searching the child's face.

"Weren't you working the Harris case?"

"Yeah."

"You guys think the cases are connected?"

"Who knows, man. This whole case is so messed up," he rubbed the back of his neck. "Uh…page me if there's anything else?" he raised his gaze to meet the coroner's.

"You got it," the awkward man nodded watching the CSI exit the swinging doors. Silentlyhe he reached for the shower nozzle andproceeded to bathe the body.

It was a thinking man's game, and right now Warrick wanted to do as little thinking as possible. Walking the halls of the lab he was surprised at how quiet things were, the silence was thick, almost overwhelming. The constant pounding of his head effectively kept beat with the drumming of his feet as he maneuvered through the halls, the humming of the fluorescent lighting adding to the soft melody. It was almost hypnotic. With the rest of the team in the field, and the identity of the newest victim still unknown, there was little for him to do but wait for the still pending DNA results. Sure he had to process the girl's clothing, but he'd save that until after his meeting with the law firm.

The twenty four hours he'd just worked his way through were quickly starting to catch back up with him and he could feel each hour, each ounce of energy lost, bearing down on him, reminding him of the life he used to have. The vibrating of his phone begged for his attention as he rounded the reception area of the crime lab. Looking to his phone he found it flashing a half dozen missed calls.

_Probably Tina_, he shook his head as he returned the mobile to his hip. If Tina was mad about him working so many hours before, she'd be spitting hell fire by the time he finally closed this case. Sure, he'd managed to catch up with her the few minutes he'd taken to drive home, shower, and change clothes, but it couldn't really count as the effort she'd been pushing him to make as of late. To be quite honest though, he couldn't care much less how pissed off she became. Anyway, it wasn't like _she_ was making an effort to be home more, why should _he_ have to be the one to bend over backward? He'd been doing this job long before Tina had entered the picture, and he'd be doing it long after she was out of it. She knew exactly what she was stepping into the second she'd accepted his marriage proposal, if that's what one would call it. A split second turn into the Fifteen Minute Wedding Chapel didn't exactly count as a marriage proposal. Still, she'd willing taken the plunge, had been just as willing as he had been.

But, now… Thoughts kept tempting him, kept jumping track, kept scaring him. Second thoughts? Not exactly. Regrets? Not really. They were just…thoughts.

The relief he felt upon entering the empty break room, though, was enough to push those thoughts to the back of his mind. He only had one thing on his mind now. With the empty couch beckoning him, and his watch reminding him of his meeting with Chandler and Kao in an hour and a half, he resigned himself to the leather piece of furniture. Thirty minutes. He only needed thirty minutes.

* * *

"You know, no matter how many times you flip the switch on and off, I don't think the lights are going to come on. The electricity must be turned off," Brass shrugged as he watched Greg flip the light switch on and off several times in the kitchen. Shifting to catch what little light streamed in through the sliding glass door to his right he sifted through the mail that had been piled on the wooden surface. "There's at least three months of unpaid bills here."

"Well, that would do it," Greg offered as he moved further into the kitchen. Finding the garbage can under the sink he rummaged through the discarded crumpled up papers.

"Electric, gas, cable," the detective listed, "this guy hasn't paid a bill since Christmas."

"Looks like I have a few more to add to your collection," the CSI said pulling out a wad of crumpled papers. "Eviction notices, late payments… Looks like he was being stalked by creditors."

"What's that?" the detective pointed.

"What's what?"

"On the corner of the page. Is that blood?"

"What, are you a CSI now?" he flashed a glance to the man. It was a decent sized stain; how it had escaped his notice he wasn't sure. But, he would have noticed it regardless, he was sure of it.

"Hey, one of us has to get the job done," he shrugged, a twinkle in his eye, as he watched the criminalist pull out a swab and test the sample. A couple drops of phenolphthalein confirmed his suspicion. "It's blood," Greg nodded, his eyes returning to the trash receptacle.

"Anything else?"

"Yeah, I'd say," he nodded pulling out a wadded bunch of paper towels. The white sheets adorned with little yellow ducks had turned a deep shade of red, giving the aquatic fowl a crimson sea in which to swim.

"Now, _that's_ a lot of blood."

"You think it's all his?"

"Hey, now that _is_ your job," Brass raised his hands as he turned to face the living room. The sofa, ratty and worn, had been overturned, it's back now lying on the floor. The seat cushions had been thrown to the floor and now rested near the sliding glass doors. The entertainment center against the far wall had been emptied. The shelves contents, of which mainly consisted of DVDs and a few books, had been piled on the floor, for the most part haphazardly discarded. The only piece of furniture left relatively untouched was the coffee table, which sat nearly center to the mayhem that once was a living room.

Slowly, the detective let his eyes scan the scene. The mess seemed a little too tidy to him. Something was off.

"Hey Sanders, what do you make of this," he threw the question over his shoulder.

Greg stopped his searching and joined the detective, his eyes falling on the living room scene.

"Of what?"

"Well, I've seen houses get broken into and I've seen rooms dismantled. But this…" the detective shook his head, "this just seems a little too clean."

"I…I don't get it. Jim, the room is _totally_ wrecked."

"Yeah, but look at _how_ it's wrecked. When someone's looking for something, they're not thinking about where things go. They're throwin' things like Nolan Ryan, right and left, across the room, behind their backs, you know? I mean, that glass vase over there isn't even _chipped_."

"Okay, okay," the criminalist nodded picking up on where the detective was leading. "I see what you're saying, but…wait…are you saying you think this scene looks staged?"

"Hey, I don't know," the older man shrugged. "I'm just thinkin'. I'm gonna go check in on the others."

"Well, hey wait a second. Check this out," Greg stopped the man as he quickly turned toward the kitchen, motioning for the man to follow.

"What'd you find?"

"Knives come in a set of six or eight, right?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"Well, I was thinking. I don't own a knife set, but I _do_ know there's only one eight inch chef's knife in a set."

"Come on, Greggo. Get me to the point."

"That's exactly where I'm taking you. There's an extra knife here," he smiled as he revealed the opened drawer nearest the stainless steel sink. "And it doesn't match any other knife in the drawer. And like Sara says; if something doesn't feel right…well it probably isn't"

"So?"

"So, I swabbed it for blood," he smiled again showing the man the evidence. "We could have our murder weapon."

"Maybe the guy thought we'd never find the weapon if he kept it with him."

He watched then as Greg began sifting through the debris in the living room. Casting a look out the sliding glass doors the detective could see the sun starting to lighten the sky. They'd already been on scene nearly an hour. Slowly he made his way around the detritus of Ted Goggle's life and headed toward the back of the house where the bedrooms were located. Whether the chaos was Goggle's attempt to throw the police for a loop, or whether it was the doing of a second suspect, he wasn't sure. He just knew he was dizzy from the circles in which the case seemed to be sending him. He also knew if he didn't get out of that house soon, he'd most likely suffer his first real psychotic break.

"Hey, Gil," he stopped in the doorway of the master bedroom. "I'm headed out to talk to the neighbors. Cops are posted at the door."

The criminalist nodded intent in his own search for evidence. The room in which he stood hadn't escaped the whirlwind of activity that had breezed through before they'd arrived on scene. The full-sized bed, positioned on the far right wall of the room, was disheveled, the sheets rumpled and thrown to the floor, the mattress itself sat helter-skelter on the box springs. The closet was a mess of abandoned and emptied shoe boxes and clothes ripped from their hangers. The dresser of drawers sat catawampus in the corner opposite the closet near the left side of the bed. The drawers had been dumped of all their contents and sat half open in their place.

"Hey Gil, I've got some bloody clothes," Catherine said interrupting the silent chaos consuming the man, her eyes glued to the bag in her hand. "Looks like arterial spray if I've ever seen it," she held up the paper bag in which she had stuffed the garments. Receiving no response from the man, she quickly scanned the room, finding the man deep in stare down with the chest of drawers across the room. "Gil?"

"Come here and look at this. This is all wrong."

Carefully stepping over the debris, she joined her partner across the room.

"What is?"

"What?" he asked responding with a slightly skittish jump. When had she crossed the room?

"_What's_ all wrong?" she furrowed her brow in concern.

"The drawers, they're all wrong. Look at them. Who would take the drawer out, dump the contents, and then put the drawer _back_ on its track?"

Together, the two stood silent, their eyes never leaving the object in question.

"You wanna throw me a bone here, Gil? 'Cause, I'm not seeing it."

"When you open a drawer and use your hands to empty it, all the clothes wind up piled haphazardly, most of them coming unfolded, right?"

"Okay..." she leaned into the words.

"Look at the clothes, at least half of them are still folded, and evenly stacked. It's like the drawers were just turned upside down," he demonstrated.

"Well, if that's the case…" Catherine nodded in understanding.

"Why would someone take the time to put the drawers back in place? It doesn't make sense."

"Did you find any prints?"

The man nodded. "Found plenty, but the chances of them belonging to anyone other than Ted Goggle? And we'd _expect_ to find his prints."

"Yeah, I guess there's no crime against ransacking your own house."

"What'd you find?" Grissom pointed to the paper bag still hanging in the female's hand.

"Clothes… from the bottom of the hamper? They're covered in blood. Come on, Gil."

"Hey guys," Greg entered the conversation from the doorway. "We missed something outside."

"What's that Greg?" Grissom diverted his attention from the woman beside him.

"Brass found a pair of gloves in the bushes," he held up the plastic bag. "I'll get them to Wendy have her swab the insides for epithelials."

"Good," Grissom nodded turning to collect his kit. "What else did you get?"

"Found some bloody paper towels in the garbage," he shrugged stepping aside as Catherine crossed the room and attempted to pass by. He watched her head toward the front of the house, waiting for the right moment to spring the news. "I also found a knife." He smiled as the news brought her to a dead stop and forced her to turn sharply in order to face him. "It'd been washed, but there was definitely blood on it. Found evidence of blood in the sink drain, too."

"So he cleaned the primary scene, but got sloppy when he got home?" Catherine raised the rhetorical question.

"Well, we don't know for _sure_ it's the Harris family's blood on the blade. Hey Catherine," Grissom poked his head into the hallway, "I'm sorry, I need your eyes again."

Slightly taken aback by the man's apologetic nature, she strode back into the bedroom joining him in gazing into the closet.

Greg, letting his curiosity get the better of him, joined them.

"What are we looking out? These clothes thrown around too neatly, too?" she turned her gaze to Grissom.

"No, it's not that," the entomologist shook his head. "It's that blue shirt," he cocked his head stooping to pick the garment from the pile.

"Wow," Greg responded with wide eyes as he took in the name on the tag, "that's a _really_ nice shirt."

"Kind of sticks out like a sore thumb in the ensemble of white and khaki," Catherine looked over the garment. "Paul Fredrick."

"Those shirts are like sixty bucks a pop, at least," Greg shook his head shifting his attention back to the closet. "Most of the shirts here are shirts you can buy at any department store," he shrugged. "Paul Fredrick's like _that_ one have to be custom ordered."

"What is Ted Goggle doing with such a nice shirt?" Catherine raised the question.

"He took it from Frank Harris's closet," Grissom spoke matter-of-factly. "He had a full Paul Fredrick wardrobe."

"So, is this another one for your self actualization theory?" Catherine asked. "Maslow's hierarchy of needs was it?"

"What Ted Goggle wants to become Frank Harris?" Greg knitted his brow.

"How close are Nick and Sara to being done?" Grissom asked as he bagged the shirt for evidence.

"Well, I checked in with them about an hour ago, and then just before I came in here. They were in the same place both then and now. The office is a _real_ mess. They'll be a while," Catherine shook her head.

"Greg you've got everything?"

Silently the young man nodded, his eyes still taking in the closet. "Uh Grissom, he pointed. "Did you notice those pants?"

"What pants?"

He watched as Greg crouched and picked up a pair of custom tailored black slacks. It was another garment in stark contrast to the pale browns and khaki that comprised the social worker's wardrobe.

"Another pair of Frank Harris's?" Catherine asked.

"Well, Ted Goggle hasn't paid any of his bills for the past three months, I have a feeling he's not the kind of guy who can really afford to blow his paycheck on a two hundred dollar pair of pants," Greg shrugged.

"Frank Harris, on the other hand, wouldn't have a problem dropping that kind of money," Grissom nodded.

"This guy is proving to be one giant sick-o," Catherine shook her head.

"Yeah, well let's hope we find _him_ before he makes anymore rash decisions," Grissom nodded gathering his kit and what little evidence he could gather. "I'll meet you guys at the car," he stopped in the hall motioning toward the room in which Nick and Sara were busy sifting through the knee deep stacks of paper. "Hey guys, we've got what we can."

"Well, we're nowhere _near_ done here," Sara shook her head, her eyes trained on the papers in her hand. "We'll stay here and finish?" she cast a questioning glance toward Nick then back to their boss.

"Yeah," Nick nodded turning his own attention to Grissom. "What'd you guys get?"

"Well, Greg found a knife, could be our murder weapon; and Catherine found a set of bloody clothes," he shrugged.

"That's convenient isn't it?" Sara lifted her eyes to meet her boss's gaze.

"You guys getting anything?"

"A lot of bank statements, a lot of case files…" Nick shook his head. "Nothing overtly suspicious. Everything you'd expect to find in a social worker's office."

"Well, I'll see you guys back at the lab," he nodded leaving them to their search.

The office was left in shambles like the rest of the house but on a grander scale. It was a mess in every sense of the word. Similar to the office Frank Harris had, though on a much smaller scale, book cases lined the right hand wall. A sofa sat propped against the wall nearest to the door, the cushions of which had been thrown across the room. Papers were scattered, covering the floor. Books from the shelves were strewn across the room. Nick quickly got back to work busying himself at the desk sitting parallel to the far wall.

"So, I haven't heard," Sara spoke up from her seat in front of the sofa, breaking the silence, yet keeping her focus on her own search.

"Hmm?" Leave it to Sara to want to chit chat.

"What'd you get from Emily Harris?"

Yep, leave it to Sara.

He didn't answer right away. In all honesty, he wasn't sure _how_ to answer, seeming as the blockage that was a softball sized lump seemed to pop up in his throat and chest at the mere mention of her name preventing the formation of words. Silently, for what felt like an eternity, he sifted through papers, hoping to find the answer to the question or to just ignore it completely.

"Nick?"

_Yeah not that easy when Sara Sidle's on the case_, he grimaced realizing he'd need to answer now.

"Oh…uh…not a lot really," he managed to say. "She was…pretty tired."

"Oh," she nodded.

"Yeah, they're…uh…keeping her on some pretty hefty pain meds," he nodded making his way around to the front of the desk. Crouching down, using the desk for support, he began sifting through more of the detritus. "Hey check it out," he held up the object of interest.

In his hand he held a wooden picture frame holding a single photo of Emily Harris. It was the only photo, let alone anything of personal value and unrelated to business, to be found in the room.

"Well, I think I just found the case files for the Harris adoptions," Sara said crossing the small room to stand by Nick. "I thought _we_ had everything? Didn't you look over them? You know, he was charging an arm and a leg for his services. _Way_ above the average adoption fees. What do you think he was doing with all that money?"

"Yeah, I don't know," Nick shrugged turning his attention to the paper shredder sitting atop the trash can just to the right of the desk. It had been the only thing that had managed to stay upright in the fiasco of papers and books. "Hey, Sara, you think he was trying to get rid of something?" he lifted the machine from plastic trash bin.

"What, trying to cover his tracks? Who isn't?"

"True," he nodded. "Our document guys will have a load of fun piecing this stuff back together," he rifled through the shredded mass. "Hey, check this out."

"What?"

"I think I've got part of a check stub here," he took a closer look at the machine. "Damn, the thing's jammed. Hand me my multi-purpose tool, would ya? I need a Phillips."

Sara quickly complied, handing her partner the needed tool from his kit. Carefully, Nick unscrewed the top cover of the machine revealing the inner workings of the device and with relative ease managed to recover the crinkled piece of paper.

"It's not shredded," Sara knitted her brow.

"Nah, the thing got jammed before the check hit that part."

"So, what'd you get?"

"It's a check made out to Ted Goggle, signed by a Cathy Hampton," he shrugged handing over the document. "It's for a hundred and fifty thousand dollars."

"That's a lot of money."

"What kind of person throws away money like that?"

"Someone with blood on their hands?"

"Maybe he was running a bogus adoption program through is back yard," Nick shrugged. The idea sounded completely insane, even to him. Still, it really wasn't all that far fetched. He'd definitely heard of things like that going down. Kids being sold in a black market sort of deal, parents unable to pay heinous adoptions fees becoming desperate, paying lower fees to the wrong people, it wasn't unheard of.

"Well, I've got a stack of case files here we can use to confirm that theory," Sara smiled laying the stack of folders on the desk.

"Where'd you get those?"

"Under the couch," she pursed her lips into a sly smile.

"Hiding place of choice these days. You up for some breakfast?" Nick offered a smile in return.

"You buying?" her smile broadened, her eyes exuding an eagerness and excitement.

"Well, since you're supplying the morning paper how can I resist?" he laughed flashing his hundred watt smile. It was a flash, quick as lightning, but he was there. The old Nick.

It'd been a while since Sara had seen him. He didn't come around as often as he used to. Ever since… Old Nick had been harder to bring to the surface. It was at that moment, that brief glimpse into the past, that she realized just how much she missed that Nick, the old Nick, the Nick before.

Silently they gathered their gear, packing their kits, stowing their cameras.

The sun was just breaching the horizon as they walked to the Denali. The air was already starting to warm, to become humid. It was going to be a cloudy morning, the sky threatening rain already.

After securing the scene, Nick climbed into the driver's seat of the Denali he'd driven to the scene, started the vehicle and turned to his passenger. "What are you in the mood for?"

"Pancakes?" she shrugged fastening her seatbelt.

"Pancakes it is," he nodded steering the Denali away from the curb.

They'd found what they needed. The case was almost closed tight.

Now if they could just find their suspect.


	16. Go Fish

**Note:** Finally have things in working order...and well...as for reveiw replies...figured a new chapter was a better gimme! So...here ya go! Seriously thanks for the reviews...mucho gusto!**

* * *

Chapter Sixteen – Go Fish

* * *

**

"The Harris's did everything by the book," the awkward and rather skittish attorney assured the detective and CSI. Howard Lawson was a rather lanky man. In his early forties, he was the epitome of Mayberry's Barney Fife, the only addition being a thick pair of tortoise shell rimmed glasses. Damn, he even had the voice down and it was grating on the ears Las Vegas' finest.

"We'd like to see your files regardless," Detective Vartann cast a skeptical glance toward Warrick. Silently they watched the nerve ridden man rifle through his files, coming to the folder of interest within seconds. The man's office was remarkably small. Each wall, painted a deep shade of pine forest green, bolstered by floor to ceiling metal bookshelves, seemed to be closing in on the civil servants the longer it took for the squirmy man to find the needed information. The CSI and detective had each taken a seat in the surprisingly comfortable leather chairs of contrasting colors. The man was in desperate need of an interior decorator, Lord knew the man could use some lessons on how to maximize small spaces.

"This is everything," he finally handed the manila files over.

"You keeping a book on the family?" the detective asked, his eyes already scanning the top pages.

"I don't know how much you know detective, but I've handled everything for the Harris's. They were a wonderful family," the man started, adjusting the plastic frames on the bridge of his nose. He had finally settled in the high backed leather chair positioned behind his particle board desk. "I handled Nathan and Hannah's adoptions. I worked with the adoption agency to make sure everything was in order. I also handled the investigation back in December."

"So, you know about all of that?" Warrick asked. He'd almost been late meeting detective Vartann that morning, his half hour nap unintentionally turning into an hour long snooze had actually been worth the semi-frazzled look of the detective as they pulled into the parking lot outside the office complex of Chandler and Kao.

"Of course," the attorney nodded.

"Then maybe you can tell us why we can't seem to find any records on Emily Harris."

"That's easy. _I_ have them," the wiry man shrugged. "They're in the second folder, on top."

The detective handed the folder of interest to the criminalist beside him. Warrick immediately opened the file, finding birth certificates for each of the Harris children.

"I found birth records for Nathan and Hannah in Frank Harris's library," Warrick looked up. "Are these just copies?" he held some papers in hand.

"I hold on to copies for my own records," Lawson nodded. "They come in handy when… investigations arise."

"I bet," Vartann smirked. "So, you want to tell us what the check for a hundred fifty thou was for?"

"Standard fees, the verification of documents…you name it."

"You verified documents?"

"Of course. I was very thorough."

"So, tell us about the investigation back in December," Vartann said closing the file now resting on his lap.

"Frank Harris came to me for legal advice. A family in Reno was claiming Emily to be their missing daughter. I was presented the case of the missing child and asked to verify that Emily Harris was indeed the biological child of Frank and Diane Harris."

"Why not just perform a DNA test?" Warrick asked.

"We did, but Frank also wanted me to verify all the documents they had on Emily, her birth certificate. It really became a tangled mess, but he spared no expense."

"A tangled mess, huh? How so?" Vartann asked.

"I ended up having to verify the legality of the adoptions of the two teenagers as well."

"The adoptions _you_ processed?"

"Yes, sir," Lawson nodded. "The family was adamant that Emily was their child. They saw a story run on the local news. When Emily had failed to respond to her chemotherapy, the Harris's urged the community to become bone marrow donors. When the family in Reno heard the story…" he trailed off. "They worked to find a loop hole, to find any reason why the Harris's would be unfit parents."

"So what happened?" Warrick asked.

"Well, the family in Reno had their attorneys look into everything. They had social workers sent to the home; they had records brought in from the state."

"What social workers?"

"Um…" Howard hesitated. "They had a couple out there on different occasions. I know the social worker that worked their adoptions made a couple visits."

"Ted Goggle?" Warrick asked.

"As a matter of fact…" the attorney nodded. "It _was_ Ted Goggle. He's really become a close friend of the family."

"I bet; then what happened?" Vartann asked glancing at his watch. The meeting had already stretched into an uncomfortably long half hour. He wasn't sure how much more he could take.

"Nothing," the wormy man shrugged. "It was as if the case dropped off the face of the earth. The family in Reno dropped everything."

"Just like that, huh? What's the name of this family?"

"Hampton. Thomas and Cathy Hampton. They only had the one child as far as I know. Actually, I think they've become quite active foster parents."

"Well," the detective offered a long sigh. Slowly he stood, stretching his back muscles. He was ready to get out of the increasingly stuffy office. "I think we've got everything we need."

"Detective, I watch the news. The girl that was found last night...do you know who she is?"

"Not yet," he shook his head giving Warrick the lead out of the office.

"Well, if you need anything else," he handed over a sheet of paper he haphazardly ripped from his scratch pad.

"We've got your number, but…" he shrugged accepting the flimsy piece of paper. "We'll be in touch."

The midmorning sun was warming the air rather quickly, giving the hope of a pleasant day. The thin layer of clouds from earlier was starting to dissipate giving way to a deep blue sky.

"So, you thinking our vic could be this Hampton girl?" Warrick asked sliding on his sunglasses as he turned to face the detective subsequently leaning back against the Sedan they'd ridden in together. The parking lot was home to several cars, patrons scurried about taking advantage of the spring-like temperatures to shop. Chandler and Kao sat center stage in the main section of the North Las Vegas Shopping Center. A shoe store sat to the left of the law office and a video rental store to the right.

"I have no idea."

"Who was the detective on their case?"

"Well, in Reno I don't know," Vartann shook his head, "but I can check it out."

"Now, you're talking," the criminalist smiled giving the man a pat on the shoulder. "So, you're buying breakfast right?"

"Oh yeah," the detective laughed as he walked around the car, "any place with a dollar menu."

"Sounds about right," Warrick nodded folding into the passenger seat.

* * *

"Nick and I went over about half of the files," Sara said as she kept pace with Grissom through the lab. "Ted Goggle had a half dozen pending adoptions, three finalized, and two in question."

"In question?"

"Child Protective Services accused him of qualifying families outside their parameters. Kind of raises a red flag about _all_ of his adoptions."

The two had woven their way through the halls, and now entered the break room. Nick sat at the table, fighting off the drowsing effects of a large breakfast as he attempted to look through a stack of files. Greg lounged on the sofa, his time spent waiting for DNA results on the knife and paper towels he'd collected from Goggle's kitchen.

Glancing at his watch Grissom looked at his CSIs. They looked tired.

"Okay, I'll have Brass check into it. Look, you guys need to go home, get some sleep. You've been pushing for three straight shifts."

"Well, I'm waiting on DNA," Greg spoke up closing the magazine he'd been reading.

"It can wait until tonight," the supervisor shook his head. "Catherine and Warrick are already gone. It's not open for negotiation," he turned leaving the room.

"Well, he's a ray of sunshine," Greg sighed, standing, with a great deal of effort, from his seat. His tee shirt was wrinkled, and though it wasn't an unusual state of existence for most of the man's clothing, it was in a rather exaggerated state as he crossed the room.

"He's tired," Nick shook his head as he closed the file in front of him. He had no problem following orders. He could really go for a few hours of sleep. They'd all been pushing the envelope on overtime with this case, catching an hour of sleep here and there. "When's the last time you changed clothes, boss?" he asked taking in Greg's disheveled appearance

"Huh?" the younger man asked, his eyes scanning down his front taking in his wardrobe. "Oh…a while," he shrugged. "Between processing two cars and chasing old ladies foot prints, I haven't had much time to get out. I haven't had a chance to run home like you guys."

Sara passed Greg her best pouting face of sympathy, before cracking a smile resulting in the cracking of Nick's efforts to remain stern faced.

"Hey, what'd I miss?" Brass asked coming in to pour a cup of coffee.

"Nothing," Sarah shook her head, a slight grin on her face. "Teacher's sending us home." She quickly started helping Nick gather the folders of information and stacking them in cleanly labeled boxes. They'd store them in evidence lock-up until they got back. "You look…awake," she frowned, her gaze held on the detective as he crossed the room, brimming mug of coffee in hand.

"Yeah, well I went home after we finished Goggle's house. Got a few hours of sleep. Oh, and in case you're interested," he shrugged. "That check stub you guys found made out to our social worker?"

"Signed by Cathy Hampton," Nick nodded.

"Yeah, I found a trail in Goggle's phone records. He'd made a dozen phone calls to this Cathy Hampton the day before yesterday."

"Well, we already know Thomas and Cathy Hampton were the couple pushing the investigation in the Harris's adoptions," Nick shrugged hefting the stuffed box from the table. "Warrick just got done with the law firm. The Hampton's were accusing the Harris's of kidnapping, and then of falsified adoptions."

"Do we have an ID on the girl found off I-15?"

"Not yet," Sara shook her head as the entourage moved into the hall. "Missing Persons is still chasing the photo."

"Well, you want my guess?" Brass offered as they paused at the evidence locker. "I'd say we found the Hampton's lost kid."

"Sounds like the case is moving along."

The group turned abruptly, greeted by a slightly sinister smile from Conrad Ecklie. The man stood crisp in a navy suit, white shirt, and blue gingham tie, straight off the drycleaner's rack. The man never failed to look like he'd walked straight out of a fitting at _Men's Warehouse_.

"I'm just talking," Brass shrugged. "I can't really tell you."

"Stokes?" the lab director addressed the CSIs flanking the detective. "It seems I can't get any information from your _supervisor_."

"Well, honestly," Nick shrugged, "there's not a lot to tell." His tone was quickly becoming thick and laden with annoyance for the hold up.

"I think what Nick and Grissom are getting at is that we don't have a lot," Sara shrugged. "There's a lot of evidence to process, and answers are slow in coming."

"Well you know, if you guys are back logged, I can always call on day shift to help with the load."

"We're good, thanks," Nick shook his head his hands on his hips. This was quickly becoming a standoff of wills.

"Just a friendly offer," the man raised his hands. "We're all on the same team here, Stokes."

"Uh huh," he nodded turning toward the locker room. Sara, Greg, and Brass, grateful for the opportunity quickly followed suit.

"Hey Stokes," Ecklie called out, bringing the man, and the group, to an abrupt stop. He watched the CSI turn, the man's square jaw obviously clenched. "Get some rest, you guys look like hell." He watched again as they headed down the hall. "Oh, and Stokes," he called once more trying not to smile at the reaction of the group. His little CSI puppets. "Tell Gil I don't want to have to send him another memo regarding overtime policies. I'm well aware of the Sheriff's standing in this case, but that doesn't change anything. I bend over backwards for you guys, I have to bend over backwards for everyone."

"You know what he does with your memos, right?" the CSI asked over his shoulder a sly grin crossing his face.

"What's that?"

"The same thing he does with your budget proposals," his grin widened.

The director watched, shaking his head, as the group turned the corner, moving toward the intersection of Grissom's office and the DNA, Ballistics, and Trace labs. He couldn't help but be slightly amused.

"Way to go, Nick," Sara shook her head. "Piss off the boss."

"Come on Sara," Brass shrugged. "Ecklie's a dick. You know that as well as any of us."

"At least I didn't tell him what _he_ could do with his memos. Thought I'd leave that to Grissom," Nick smiled as the CSIs parted ways with the detective.

* * *

It was nearing midmorning as Nick climbed into his truck and turned the key in the ignition, bringing the engine to life. The sun was warm; the black interior of his vehicle radiated the heat from the sun's rays. He could feel his tense muscles relaxing as he sunk back into the driver's seat. It'd been nearly twenty four hours since he'd been home, felt the soft comfort of his queen sized bed. The thought of a hot shower was almost as tantalizing as the thought of a few hours of sleep. But, as he pulled from his parking spot, and into traffic on Boulder Highway he could only think of one place he needed to be more than home. Waiting for a clearing in traffic, he turned away from the direction leading him home. He had a stop to make before he settled down.

* * *

"Go fish," Emily laughed. She sat cross legged in her hospital bed, pretty in pink flannel pajamas and a mass of cards splayed across the blankets. She'd looked more alert, more vibrant as he stepped into her room. The brightness in her eyes multiplying as she saw him enter. He had promised her he'd come back and he wanted to stay true to his word. The further they got into the case, the closer they got to closing it, the harder it would be for him to get away. He'd promised himself he wouldn't stay long.

"You're beating me kid," Nick scowled playfully as he picked up another card, adding to the growing collection in his hand. "You already have twice as many pairs as I do."

"I told you I was good at this game," she shrugged, a twinkle in her eye. "Do you have any kings?"

"Ha, ha," he laughed menacingly, "go fish."

He'd already been there an hour.

The little girl's laughter filled the room as she drew a card, skillfully making a match, emptying her hand of cards.

"I win," she smiled.

Her smile was contagious.

"I told you I was better at Old Maid, but…" the CSI leaned back in his chair upon laying his cards face up on the bed, "you insisted on this. You're just too good for me," he winked. He glanced at his watch aware of time slipping away. "Hey, you want to go down to the rec room?" he sat up. "I bet you haven't even been down there yet."

"I already know what it's like," she shook her head, her eyes downcast.

"Oh, come on. It'll be fun," he stood. "I'll even carry you myself," he smiled, his arms outreached as he handed her a dark blue robe.

Hesitantly she slid her arms into the thick, warm garment. She stood on the bed then, bouncing on the firm mattress then jumping into Nick's arms her laughter filling his ears.

"You know, I hear Sam hangs out down here a lot," he smiled opening the door and entering the bright hallway. "She's pretty cool, isn't she?"

"Yeah," Emily smiled. "I like her. She's pretty."

"Yeah," Nick chuckled as he paused in the doorway of the play room. Kids were actively indulged in their projects of choice. Sam was busy in the chaos of a group of boys attempting to play a game of twister. "There she is," he pointed across the room as the nurse's gaze fell upon the pair. She spoke softly to the boys before making her way across the room. As she approached he felt Emily shrink into him. His heart leapt in his chest, the softball returning to his throat.

"Hey Emily!" the nurse bubbled.

Carefully Nick crouched down, allowing Emily to stand on the floor.

"Hey, Em," he cleared his throat. "Is it cool if I talk to Sam for a second?" he asked quickly taking a look into the room, there were a couple of girls sitting at a nearby table. "Draw me a picture," he smiled nodding his head toward the table.

Slowly the girl's gaze followed his, her eyes taking in the blank pages on the table.

"Better yet," he smiled, "write me a puppet show."

Her eyes lit up, an idea already formulating in her mind.

"Okay," she spoke softly still holding onto his hand. He led her to the table, pulling her out a chair in which to sit. "I'll be right back," he placed a hand atop her head. He turned then receiving a sympathetic look from the nurse awaiting his return.

"Well," she started leading him further into the hallway.

"I'm not a match," he shook his head as he leaned back against the yellow wall.

"While you're the same blood type, your HLA type _isn't_," she shook her head sadly. "Look it's a noble thing you did, but I'm sorry."

"Noble or not, it doesn't bring Emily any closer to recovery," he sighed leaning his head back.

"You know, I've been Emily's nurse ever since she started coming to this hospital, going on two years now; and, well, she's _never_ come down to the rec room," Sam glanced through the glass keeping a close eye on the kids.

"You're kidding," Nick lifted his head, his eyes back on the nurse.

"You're good for her," she nodded. A seriousness so deep it was haunting radiated from her. It bored into him. "You're not like most cops."

"So, what happens now? I mean, with the transplant and all. How close are you to finding a match?"

"Well, we're getting closer. We found a preliminary match back east. It'll be a while before we know anything."

Nick glanced back at his watch. He really needed to get some sleep. Pushing himself off the wall, he walked with Sam back into the community room. The group of boys on the Twister mat immediately swarming the nurse, Nick smiled making a bee line for Emily.

"Hey," he whispered kneeling beside the child as she wrote feverishly.

"Don't look," she smiled working to cover her sure-to-be masterpiece.

"I didn't see a thing," he raised his hands in defense, his eyes falling tenderly on the child. She had a grip on his heart, it was strong and unyielding.

"You've got to go, don't you?" she asked looking him in the eye.

"Yeah, kiddo. I've gotta go," he nodded apologetically.

"That's okay," she nodded understandingly. "You have work, right?"

"Yeah, I've got work," he laughed now. "I'll be back."

"I know."

"I have to read your puppet show," he smiled.

He watched as Emily stood from her chair, her eyes downcast again. Slowly she picked them up, her blue eyes meeting his. There was an emptiness to be seen there, an emptiness he knew could only be filled by a parent. It was a feeling this girl would no longer have, would no longer experience. He smiled at her, hoping it was encouraging, but knowing it came across as so much less. He felt the lump returning to his throat. He felt the tears damming behind his eyes, threatening to breech the barricade. He bent, and swooping the girl into his arms he embraced her, not trying to take the place of her parents, not trying to fill that void; just trying to make it less noticeable maybe. Trying to fill his own void.

The tiny giggle escaping the girl's throat was just enough as he sat her back in her chair.

"It better be a good play," he whispered.

"The best," she smiled watching him turn and leave.


	17. Messy Karma

**Note:** Real quick...keep in mind I wrote this back in March...so...this story is taking place around that time. Reference to the Discovery Channel's show "Ultimate Survivor" is based off that timeline...a GREAT show if you ask me!

**

* * *

****Chapter Seventeen** – Messy Karma

* * *

"The blood's a match to all four victims," Greg said entering Grissom's office. Nick and Catherine were already seated in front of his desk. "And the prints on the knife handle belong to Ted Goggle."

"Whom we can't find," Catherine shook her head.

They were about an hour into their regular shift, three days into the Harris case. Nick had managed about seven hours of sleep around midday, getting up around dinner time to shower and get back to the lab. He wanted to finish sorting through the adoption files he and Sara had found in Ted Goggle's home office.

"So, we have our killer," Greg said, enthusiasm working through his voice.

"It would appear so," Grissom nodded.

"I don't get it," Nick shook his head, not ready to buy the story the evidence seemed to be telling them. "I mean, Warrick says this guy was a close friend of the family. What reason would he have to kill them?"

"Well, what did you find from the adoption files?" Catherine asked.

"Well there _are_ two adoptions under investigation. Warrick confirmed it with the law firm," Nick started.

"Chandler and Kao," Catherine nodded.

"Turns out Goggle was trying to forge adoptions."

"How did he do that?" Greg asked leaning against a file cabinet.

"Basically, he was sliding kids under the table. Family's weren't going through the chain of command, weren't undergoing background checks," Nick continued. "So far only two cases are in question. A kid went to a family in Henderson and a month later was pulled. He's in a group home right now; the adoption's still pending while a background check is being run."

"What about the second case?" Grissom asked.

"The girl was put back into the system," Nick shook his head. "It didn't hold."

"Hey guys," Brass entered the office. His expression was somber, even for him. "We got a hit on Ted Goggle's car, parking garage outside the Sphere. Bring your kits."

* * *

The parking garage was dark, the fluorescent lighting doing little to bring void to the darkness of the night. It was the only car sitting on the eighth level of the parking structure; a red Toyota Corolla, it sat small and isolated within the concrete structure.

"Call from an anonymous witness came in, dispatch relayed it over the radio," the officer on the scene informed as the group pulled up. The name on his uniform read Jackson. "I was the closest to the scene so I rolled. He's in the car," he nodded as Brass took over.

"Did you touch anything?" Grissom asked pulling on a pair of latex gloves.

"Uh…sir…it's pretty messy."

"Did you _touch_ anything?"

"The window was down," he shook his head. "I felt for a pulse and radioed in for you guys."

"Alright, kid," Brass nodded placing a hand on the officer's shoulder. "You did good."

The officer watched the CSIs walk to the car, walking the perimeter of the vehicle taking it in with almost every sense. Were they hoping to absorb everything through osmosis? He never really understood the scientists; probably never would. They carried guns, but they were barely cops. He stood back, though, allowed them to do their job.

"Okay, Nick you start with the photos and sketch," Grissom began delegating tasks.

"You got it," the CSI nodded.

"Greg, go with Brass and collect all the surveillance videos for this garage, every floor. If they want a warrant, tell them we'll have it in a half hour. Take the video back to the lab and get started on it. Archie's off tonight. Call Sara if you need help. I've got her backing Warrick up for now." He paused watching the young man turn and walk away, the detective following him to the nearby elevator. "The medical examiner should be here any minute. We need to get the outside processed so he can get to the body. Catherine, the passenger side," he nodded moving to the driver's side.

"Damn," Catherine let out a long sigh. "Check out this blood spatter," she shook her head, her eyes wide as she bent at the waist to take in the passenger side window.

"Looks like a gunshot wound to the left temple," Grissom nodded crouching to dust the car door for prints. Skillfully he brushed the powder across the vehicle, and with great precision, tape lifted the palm print he found on the ledge where the window met the frame.

"Hey Griss, I've got a partial footprint here," Nick called from his position about three feet away. "_Somebody_ stepped in blood," he snapped a photo before swabbing the print and applying a drop of phenolphthalein. "It's not much, and it's dried but…" he called over his shoulder.

There was no response from the man behind him. Had Grissom even heard him? He didn't have time to repeat it, though, as his attention was pulled toward the arriving Coroner's van. This time it was Doc Robbins responding to the field. Nick watched as the older man climbed down from the vehicle, instructed his assistants, and made his way to the crime scene.

"Hey Doc," Nick nodded a greeting as he shone his Maglite along the concrete floor. "Busy night?"

"I've got every guy I have in the field," the ME nodded as he passed the Texan. The rather short man leaned into his metal crutch, his mostly white hair catching the light as he approached the car. He looked remarkably crisp in his black slacks and gray polo. "What have we got?"

"Dead guy in a car," Nick stood, his eyes trailing the path of the coroner.

"Gil," the doctor nodded in greeting. "Catherine."

"Got a no-brainer for you, Doc" Catherine spoke from the passenger side. She'd already processed the outside and now worked to make sense of the chaotic interior.

"Hey, isn't this the guy…?"

"Well…he _was_," Nick sighed joining the group once more, his camera balanced in his right hand.

"There's gray matter all _over_ the window here," Catherine offered an involuntary cringe. "Check out the size of that exit wound," she flashed several photos.

The body sat slumped forward over the steering wheel. Ted Goggle's eyes were open, vacant, empty as his chin rested on the top of the steering apparatus. He was dressed in a cheap looking pair of khaki chinos, a solid white collared shirt and a khaki overcoat. In his left hand, sitting atop his left thigh, rested a gun.

"What are you thinking?" Catherine looked across to her male counterpart. Nick had moved a few feet away now, his eyes trailing his light as it scanned the ground for evidence. "Suicide?"

"At first glance," Grissom shrugged, "it would appear so." With a steady hand he removed the gun from the deceased's, examining it, careful not to disturb any possible prints. "Hey Nick," he called over his shoulder, "care to help me out." He handed the gun over as the younger CSI made his way back around the car. "I don't see any prints, do you?" he watched as the man examined the gun.

Nick shook his head, "Smith and Wesson 629. It's been wiped clean."

"Check the revolver," he nodded.

"Six cylinder revolver, cylinder's empty. Guess he only needed one bullet," the CSI reported turning the barrel on the pin. "I haven't found it yet."

"Bag it, get it to ballistics," Grissom nodded as he turned back to the coroner. "Doc?"

"Liver temp places time of death around five last night. Single gunshot wound to the left temporal lobe. Death was most likely immediate," he stood up straight, motioning for his assistants to wheel the gurney over to load the body.

"That would do it," Nick nodded returning to his search of the ground, the questioning, and slightly perturbed, look Grissom cast his way going unheeded.

Doc Robbins returned the same questioning glance to the entomologist. He slowly gathered his clipboard grasping the handle on his crutch. "I'll have the preliminary report done in a couple hours," he said turning to leave the scene. "I like to get the easy ones out of the way."

The air was chilly in the parking garage. The continual flicker of the green tinted lights was cause enough for the headache plaguing him, but quite honestly Nick was just tired. The fact that their primary suspect was dead by apparent suicide didn't bode well for them, or the case. Taking the easy way out…the coward's way out seemed to be the trend among the criminal world as of late. It had been for the Gordon's. But, why stop there? Hell, why not Ted Goggle? This sure as hell wasn't justice for the Harris family, for Emily, regardless of whether the man deserved to live or die. Suicide was a lousy way out, and a damn selfish one at that.

He moved back around to the passenger side of the vehicle taking in the site of the fractured, blood spattered window.

"Hey Cath, you got a trajectory rod in your kit?"

"Yeah," she nodded pulling away from the car to fetch the tool.

"Care to close the door for a sec?" he asked as she handed the florescent red plastic rod to him. "I want to get an idea of where the bullet could have gone."

"Yeah sure," she nodded acquiescing to his request.

She watched as he inserted the rod into the spider-veined glass.

"That's nearly perpendicular to the ground," she shook her head. "Sure _looks_ like suicide. Trajectory would normally be at a sharper angle if someone else pulled the trigger."

"Yeah," Nick sighed following the line the bullet would have traveled. Carefully, keeping his light on the ground just in front of his feet, he inched away from the car. A .22 caliber bullet would be hard to find, even if it was on a straight trajectory.

"We'll get the car back to the lab, finish processing there," Grissom shook his head. "My guess is, our best bet for a lead is…" he trailed off interrupted by Nick.

"How about a bullet?" the CSI called out standing at the wall of the garage near the elevator. "It got lodged in the wall," he shone his light on the point of interest in the concrete brick. The bullet had penetrated at least a couple inches into the wall.

"Nice eye," Catherine smiled as the flash of Nick's camera filled the night.

Nick quickly snapped off a couple more shots of the wall then pulled his multipurpose tool from his vest pocket. Carefully as to not destroy the evidence he pried the bullet from its concrete cage.

".22 caliber," he nodded holding his light on the small piece of metal. "Looks like we've got some blood," he placed the evidence in the plastic bag offered by Catherine. He then took his light, shining it on the wall at the point of impact.

"What've you got?" the female asked curiously.

"Looks like a skin tag, maybe a couple hairs attached," he squinted while using his tweezers to extract the possible DNA evidence. "I'll get this stuff to the lab," he finished placing the hairs in a bindle. Upon labeling both pieces of evidence, he placed them in his vest pocket. "So you think this guy had a sudden attack of conscience?"

"What, so he just _kills_ himself?" Catherine asked as they walked back to the car.

"Happens," he shrugged. "Maybe he was just too _coward_ to face what he'd done. Seems to be the trend these days." He practically spat the words out; they tasted venomous on his tongue.

The words had caught Catherine off guard. They weren't _angry_ words. They were words full of pain, full of animosity. She watched silently, taken aback, as Nick busied himself, seemingly unaware of the effects his words had on the woman.

She wanted to say something, knew she _needed_ to say something, but words seemed to be failing her. It was a new thing for her. Words never failed her. She stood silent for a minute, willing the words to form.

Just as she began to corral the words together, she was stopped by the opening of the elevator doors. She watched then as Brass and Greg walked back onto the eighth floor.

"Got the videos," the detective motioned toward the bag in the CSI's hand. "The jackass parking lot attendant swears he doesn't know anything. He's only been on the clock a few hours," he shrugged rejoining the group. "You guys done here?"

"Waiting for the tow truck," Grissom shook his head, still working on the driver's side of the car.

"I'm gonna head back with Greg," Nick stood upright upon gathering his gear, his field kit gripped firmly in his left hand. There was a tension in his stance. He needed to get out, get away from the scene.

Gil, Catherine and Brass watched as Nick and Greg headed toward the parked vehicles.

"You guys okay here?" Brass asked.

"Yeah," Catherine nodded, her hands stuffed in the pockets of her navy forensics parka.

"I need to get back and follow up with the guy that was on duty before the moron down there now."

"Go," Grissom nodded. "The officer's still here. We're fine."

They watched as the detective picked up his pace quickly crossing the garage and climbing into the idling Denali.

"You have that look," Grissom frowned at the woman beside him.

"What look?"

"Never mind," he waved a hand hoping to shrug off the comment, and the impending doom he felt upon the release of his words.

"No, there's no never mind. What _look_, Gil?"

"It's just a look," he shook his head.

"Come on, tell me."

He sighed, knowing he'd stepped into the hole this time. "It's just…It's the same look you had when…" he paused.

"When…"

"When Nick…"

"Oh," she said promptly bringing the man's comment to a halt, her voice barely above a whisper.

"You wanna talk?" he sighed, knowing it was an inevitable situation with the woman beside him. If he was in the hole, he might as well go on and fill it in.

"It's just something Nick said," she shook her head turning to face the car. "It's nothing really."

"Oh."

"How do you think he's coping?" she turned back to him. She had to get it off her chest.

"Who Nick? He's fine," he offered what he hoped was a light hearted smirk.

"Do you think this case is getting to him?"

"It's getting to all of us," he shook his head nonchalantly. "We've been pushing for three days straight, falling down rabbit holes, coming to dead ends."

"This is different," she shook her head, her hands on her hips. Her eyes trailed back to the spot where the Denali had been parked just seconds ago. "I don't know," she threw her hands up. "Maybe I shouldn't have said anything."

"Well, you want to help me wrap the car?" he held up a roll of clear plastic wrap.

"It's not _just_ this case," she stopped, still unable to drop the uneasy feeling.

"It's not."

"It's this case, it's the McBride case, it's the Gordon cases, it's the Crane case," she listed. "Have you even _talked_ to him since the Kelly Gordon case? I mean, Christ Gil, the girl _killed_ herself in front of him."

"Catherine, you know as well as I, if Nick was having trouble, he'd come to one of us."

"Would he, Gil?"

"Come on, Catherine. It's _Nick_."

"Yeah, it's _Nick_," she nodded emphatically. "He's not exactly an open book when it comes to emotions. I mean, _Jesus_, he's becoming more like you every day. Has he even really _talked_ about what happened last summer, what happened last _month_?"

"I'm sure he has," he shrugged.

"He hasn't to _me_," she shook her head defiantly, her eyes boring into him.

"Well, Catherine. I'm _sure_ he's talked about it. He's fine."

"It must be a lonely state," Catherine shook her head, turning back to the car once more surrendering to the fact that it was pointless to carry the topic any further with the man in front of her.

"What state is that?"

"The state of denial," she turned back quickly. "You've been there for ten months now. When are you going to wake up?"

"I can't do anything unless he comes to me," he raised his hands in mock surrender. "You know that as well as I." Together they stood in silence, his eyes unwavering in their gaze as they peered on the woman before him, her eyes downcast.

In all honesty, he _was_ concerned. Lately, it seemed Nick was rooting himself in his cases, emotionally as well as physically. And truthfully, he _really_ _was_ concerned. He just didn't know how to approach him about it, and well, was maybe hoping Catherine would beat him to the punch. "Look, the tow truck's here. Can we _please_ get back to the car? I'd like to have this thing processed tonight," he motioned with his hands.

Conceding, Catherine nodded. Silently they wrapped the car, preserving the possible evidence within until they could gather it back in the garage at CSI.

* * *

"Bobby D," Nick smiled entering the ballistics lab.

"Nick Stokes," the lab tech smiled as he swiveled in his wheeled chair to face the voice as it entered the lab.

"Got a bullet and a gun for ya." The CSI had already had the evidence swabbed for DNA and any trace from the bullet sent to Hodges.

"Let's see it," he nodded receiving the plastic bag from the criminalist. Carefully he removed the bullet. ".22 caliber," he smiled placing the evidence under the scope skillfully adjusting the focus. "Wow, it's pretty desiccated."

"Yeah, I pulled it from a concrete wall," Nick nodded.

"That'd do it," the tech nodded. "Where's the gun?"

"S&W 629," Nick held up the prize.

"Aw… a six shooter. You shouldn't have," he stood heading to the water trough as he loaded the chamber. Each man pulled on a pair of safety goggles, and then a pair of sound proof earphones. "Fire in the hole! Firing one!" the lab tech called out, subsequently firing a shot into the ballistics pool.

Removing the protective gear, Nick moved to the side of the pool, lifted the lid and retrieved the bullet from the metal floor.

"Let's check it out," Bobby smiled crossing the room back to the microscope.

"So, have you checked out the new show on _Discovery_?" Nick leaned against the counter. "_Ultimate Survivor_?"

"Oh yeah," the tech nodded, a grin spreading across his face. "This guy parachutes into some unknown location and has to make it out in five days with nothing but the clothes on his back," he nodded turning to meet the Texan's eye.

"Yeah, last week he was in the Canadian Rockies," Nick nodded, a twinkle in his eye.

"Take a look," the tech stepped away from the scope, allowing the criminalist a view of the evidence. "Yeah, did you know that guy climbed Everest _three_ different times? He's the youngest Brit. to reach the summit."

"Yeah," Nick nodded, his eyes still down the scope. "Look's like a match if I've ever seen one," he stood upright crossing his arms in front of him. "Let's check out this gun."

"These guns are easily traceable," Bobby nodded leading the way to the computer across the lab.

"If the serial hasn't been filed," Nick nodded taking a seat next to the bullet man.

"Well, on _this_ gun, that's damn near impossible to do. Serial's on the inside of the chamber cylinder. It's hard to read, but not impossible, just gotta know where to look."

"Damn, Smith and Wesson playing like they've got brains now?" Warrick entered the lab. "Heard about the case," he nodded.

"Yeah," Nick nodded. "You got a hit on the missing girl yet?"

"Not yet," he shook his head. "Sara and I are in a corner, right now. She's gone off helping Greg with surveillance. Thought I'd see what y'all were up to."

"Just about to name the owner of your gun," Bobby smiled. "Gun's registered to a Cathy Warner in Reno."

"Cathy Warner?" Warrick asked taking in the photo lifted from the database. "That's not Cathy Warner. That's Cathy _Hampton_."

"Hampton?" Nick asked. "As in…the Cathy Hampton that investigated the Harris's?"

"One and the same," Warrick nodded leaning back against the counter.

"Wait a second," Bobby wheeled back on his stool. "Let me get this straight. Cathy Warner is…Cathy Hampton now?"

"It happens," Nick nodded, a grin on his face. "Woman gets married, changes her name?"

"Yeah, I got that part," Bobby shook his head, his grin spreading to his eyes. "But, this lady is the same one putting your dead family through the legal wringer?"

"Looks like it," Warrick nodded.

"And now a gun registered to _her_, winds up being the weapon in a case involving the social worker? Too many twists and turns if you ask me," he shook his head.

"Yeah, that's why they pay us the big bucks. Besides, we still don't have her prints on the weapon," Nick shook his head in response. "The grip was wiped clean."

"A gun registered to her winds up in the hand of a dead social worker? We have more than enough for a warrant," Warrick stood. "And we know who to look for in surveillance, now. Let's go run her through the DMV database, find out what she drives."

"Thanks Bobby," Nick patted the lab tech on the back as he stood from his seat. "You get a report ready?"

"You're the boss," he nodded watching the criminalists leave.

* * *

"Greg, we're looking for a 2000 Dodge Caravan. Nevada license 958 TKJ," Nick breezed into the ballistics lab, Warrick was fast on his heels. He handed the file to Sara, a copy of Cathy Warner's current issue driver's license on top.

"How'd…" the young CSI started as his eyes fell upon the report.

"The gun from our scene is registered to a Cathy Warner, who is now Cathy Hampton," Nick started.

"DMV database," Warrick smirked as he focused on the monitor. "What have you got so far?"

"A lot of nothing," Sara sighed.

"We've got over 24 hours of footage to go through. We've still got a couple tapes to sift through," Greg spoke up.

"But, now we know what we're looking for," Sara smiled. Things were finally falling into place. Answers were finally breaking through the seemingly unending barrage of questions. It was a rush, a pure rush of adrenaline for each CSI. "Give us a half hour."

* * *

**A/N** Commentsabout upcoming projectsin my profile!

* * *


	18. Silent Wonderland

**

* * *

****Chapter Eighteen** – Silent Wonderland

* * *

"Ted Goggle was murdered," Nick threw the ballistics report on Grissom's desk as he took a seat. Warrick wasn't far behind him. "The gun's registered to a Cathy Warner…"

"Who is now Cathy Hampton of Reno," Warrick added.

"So now our murderer is our victim?" Grissom sat back in his chair, the ballistics report in hand.

"Do we know for sure he's our killer?" Warrick asked.

"DNA confirms it," Nick nodded. "His DNA was found in both female victims."

"Well that only proves sexual assault," he shrugged.

"His DNA was also found under the fingernails of each family member," Grissom added, "plus we found the murder weapon in his home, his fingerprints on the handle, and an add mixture of blood from all four victims on the blade."

"So, now our killer's a victim," Warrick sunk into the chair beside Nick.

"Anything coming from the surveillance videos?" Grissom asked.

"Greg and Sara are still running through them. They had two tapes to finish up. We just ran Cathy Hampton through the DMV database; she drives a 2000 Dodge Caravan," Nick said leaning forward, resting his forearms on his knees.

"Hey guys, we found it," Greg smiled from the doorway of the office. Quickly he turned leading the way back to the A/V lab where Sara sat, a slightly smug smile inching across her face.

"You found what exactly," Grissom asked following the trail of his CSIs.

"Take a look," Sara's smile broadened. She turned her attention to the monitor, the scene inside the parking garage unfolding before their eyes.

"Our killer knew how to avoid most of the cameras," Greg started. "When she got to the eighth floor, though, she got sloppy."

"She?" Grissom asked.

"Check this out," Sara cued the video and allowed it to play.

The black and white image was fuzzy, but clear enough to depict to everyone in the room what was happening. The obvious female form exited the minivan and slowly approached the driver's side of the parked sedan. There was a quick flash, a moment's hesitation and the female was gone from the frame.

"Can we clear this up any?" Grissom asked with his arms crossed in front of him as he stood with Nick and Warrick behind the other two CSIs.

"I managed to clear up the license plate of the minivan," Greg nodded switching to a closer image of the object of interest. "958 TKJ, it's a match to our Cathy Hampton," he turned to Warrick and Nick.

"Good," the supervisor offered a half grin.

"Gil," Catherine breezed into the A/V lab. "I've run Cathy Warner's background."

"You mean Cathy Hampton," he corrected leading his team back to his office.

"Whatever," she shook her head, "look this lady is big time scandalous," she took a seat in front of the man's desk. The rest of the team found roost around the cramped space.

"Big time scandalous isn't a crime these days," Grissom shrugged perching in his office chair.

"It is when you're trying to forge adoptions."

"Whoa," Nick shot up. "Forge adoptions? We know _Goggle_ was trying to do that, but how does Cathy Hampton fit into the equation?"

"The Hamptons have had at _least_ a half dozen foster kids since their daughter went missing last year," Catherine started.

"Six kids in six months? Speaking of missing kids," Sara interrupted. "Warrick, do you know who the girl in your case is yet?"

"Still working, really bustin' our rumps on it. Missing Persons is backlogged with several cases," he shook his head turning back to Catherine.

"So, I looked into these kids that were worked through the Hampton's home. As it turns out, _Goggle_ was slipping kids through the cracks and handing them off to the _Hamptons_."

"What do you mean?" Grissom asked, his brow furrowed in confusion.

"Older kids, mostly," Catherine continued passing the file over the man's desk.

"Unwanted kids," Sara nodded looking over Grissom's shoulder. "No one misses them when they fall off the face of the earth, basically." She knew how it worked. It was always the same.

"I think that's what Goggle was hoping for," Catherine nodded. "Social services finally got a clue about it and fired him about a month ago."

"So…what?" Nick asked. "Bitter social worker seeks revenge? Why kill the Harris's?"

"Well, Warrick said Tom and Cathy Hampton investigated the Harris's right? Thinking they'd found their lost daughter?" Catherine turned her attention to the man standing against the wall.

He nodded in response.

"Well, maybe they had tunnel vision. Maybe they were so sure that Emily Harris was really their daughter…" she trailed off. "Maybe they got desperate."

"So how does Ted Goggle figure in?" Nick asked.

"He had an in with the family," Greg spoke up.

"A close friend of the family," Warrick nodded.

"Look, this may all be fine and true," Grissom spoke up now. "But do we have the _evidence_ to prove any of this?"

The team sat silent, unable to answer the question.

"Well, let's get the evidence we need. Sitting here forming conclusions before the evidence is processed won't get us anywhere. Warrick, get back to missing persons; concentrate on the Hampton case. Pull up the old case file see if the file photo's a match to the girl in the morgue. I'll call Brass and get a warrant for the Hampton's residence and vehicles. If Cathy Hampton killed Ted Goggle, there will be more evidence. I want to find it."

* * *

The Reno neighborhood was quiet, most of the houses dark, the occupants asleep for hours. It was late, or early. It was all told in the a.m. of the five o'clock hour as Nick hit the Indiglo button on his watch. Early. Very, very early. 

He stood outside the single level home, working to ward off the late night/early morning cold. Now with Grissom, Catherine, Sara, and Brass he waited for the warrant to come through. The call had been made to the judge nearly an hour ago. Any minute now, they expected to hear the computer in the Denali ring true, presenting them their search warrant. Greg had stayed at the lab, following up on the bloody clothes found in Goggle's house and to help Warrick if he needed it.

Silence added to the void of night as the group huddled near the rear of the first mobile crime unit.

Brass worked to stifle a yawn as he leaned against the rear bumper. His eyes fell upon the uniformed officers standing just to the right of the criminalists. He sort of felt bad for the guys. Sort of. They were obviously new to the beat, new to the uniform, and working graveyard shift was no picnic. This time of night, or morning, was always the hardest to get through. The end of shift mocking them, just out of reach, and exhaustion bearing down, it took everything they had just to push through.

"I thought you said it'd be cake to get this warrant," Nick yawned as he offered a playful punch to the detective's arm.

"Yeah, _you_ try calling the judge up four hours before he's due to be in court," the detective grimaced. "We're lucky it's only taking an hour."

"Yeah," Nick nodded as his attention was drawn to the vibration of his cell phone. Unclipping it from his belt he flipped it open to receive the newly received text message.

"What'd you get?" Sara asked, her curiosity aroused by the man's pleased expression.

"Adoptions check out for both Nathan and Hannah Harris. The documents are legit. As for the shredded stuff we found in Goggle's study? Nothing probative, other than the check we recovered from the shredder."

"I didn't know the Harris adoptions were ever _really_ in question," Grissom arched his brow.

"Well, when Rick and I found the papers in Frank's study I bagged them," he shrugged in response. "Then when we learned Goggle was working his own forged adoptions, I had our lab verify the documents."

"Warrick already verified their adoptions with the law firm," Sara shrugged.

"Call me thorough," Nick smirked.

"Thoreau?" Grissom waxed a smile as the computer beeped to life, the printer subsequently spitting out a printed warrant signed by the judge.

"Well, we've got our warrant," Catherine handed the paper to the detective.

"Shall we?" Brass led the crew to the front door. There were no worries, this time, about catching the homeowners off guard. In fact it was what they were going for. They were always at their most vulnerable when taken by surprise.

From the outside the Bradford Ranch home was nice, well kept. As the group approached the front door they were slightly surprised to see a light illumine their path.

"Security light?" Brass asked as his ears perked up to the sound of deadbolt locks unlatching. Slowly, stealthy he placed his hand on his holstered weapon, the cold metal rushing a wave of nervous energy over him. Motioning the CSIs to remain where they were he inched forward watching as the front door inched open. "Las Vegas Police! We have a warrant to search the premises."

They watched as the door swung fully open, the silhouette of a rather thick man took up much of the open frame. "Honey, stay inside," he spoke softly as he inched further onto the front porch. "What the _hell's_ this all about?" he asked, working to keep his voice relatively calm as he moved to stand on the edge of the front step. The boxers and tee shirt did little to impress the man's image.

"Thomas Hampton?" the detective asked.

"Tom, yeah, that's me," the man nodded.

"I'm Detective Jim Brass; this is Gil Grissom from the Las Vegas Crime Lab. We have a warrant to search your home. If you and your wife would please step outside with these officers," he motioned to the uniforms.

"What the hell?" he asked casting a quick gaze toward the open door behind him. "I don't think so. You come to my house in the middle of the night. Our neighbors call us telling us there are people lurking outside."

"If you would just please go with this officer I'll explain everything."

"You'll tell me _now_," he insisted.

Slowly his wife inched out the door, clad in a rose colored bathrobe. Her face was a muddled mix of fear and concern. "Tom, what's wrong?"

"Nothing honey, go back inside."

"Sir, everything's in the warrant," Grissom stepped forward.

"Look, pal," Brass halted the entomologist's attempt to control the situation, "I don't want to arrest you for obstruction, I just had my suit dry cleaned. Why don't you just let these guys do their jobs and we'll go over here and talk this whole thing over, huh?"

The husband and wife exchanged wary glances and slowly complied with the detective's request following him down the front walk.

"Actually Jim, I'd like them to stick around," Grissom spoke up.

"Suit yourself," the detective shrugged turning to follow the CSIs into the dark home.

"Just had your suit dry cleaned, huh?" Nick smirked at the man, his voice low enough to go unheard by the couple.

"Hell, dry cleaning's expensive, you know that. No way I'm wasting my money on these guys," he smiled, his voice equally low, his eyes focused on the couple as they lingered near the still open front door.

"Uh huh," Nick nodded. "I'll start in the back," he motioned down the hallway.

"I'll help," Sara perked up following him down the darkened corridor.

"Guess that leaves me the garage," Catherine pointed as she made her way through the kitchen.

"What exactly are you looking for?" the wife spoke up for the first time since their meeting.

"Well, that's where it gets a little tricky," the detective mused. He watched as Grissom began processing the kitchen to their right. "Let me ask you something, have you been to the Sphere recently?"

"The Sphere?" Mr. Hampton asked. "Why would _we_ be at the Sphere?"

"I don't know," the man shrugged skeptically, "Why don't you ask your wife?"

"My wife?" he turned a questioning glance toward the woman. "Honey, what's he talking about?"

The blank stare he received was of little help.

"You see, we have the surveillance videos from the parking garage of the Sphere, and well we're all rather curious why _your_ minivan showed up on the eighth level last night."

"I…I have no idea," the man shook his head in response. "I mean, I've never even…" he trailed off.

The detective turned his attention to the criminologist in the kitchen. It wasn't going to take much for him to lose his patients with this couple; he could see that now. Silently he stood with them watching as the CSI did his job, probing and sifting through the contents of the relatively large room. He could feel the minutes ticking away, painstakingly slow. Why Grissom wanted them to stick around, he wasn't sure.But, the relief he felt when his attention was drawn to the approach of Nick and Sara was indescribable.

"Hey Griss, you might want to take a look at this," Nick motioned for his boss to join him and Sara in the foyer. In his right hand he held a plastic bag containing women's clothing obviously covered in blood. It was on this that Grissom's eyes rested before quickly turning to the woman. "Found them in the bathroom."

"I found these shoved under the bed in the master bedroom," Sara held up another plastic bag. Inside the entomologist found a pair of sneakers, covered with what appeared to be more blood spatter.

"Mrs. Hampton, are these your clothes?" the lead criminalist asked shining his Maglite on the upheld evidence.

There was no notable response from the woman, just a subtle widening of her eyes, an increasing look of fear creeping from the depths of her soul.

"Do you care to explain how all this blood got on your clothing?"

She remained silent at the question, averting her eyes from the glare of the criminalists.

"All of a sudden she's mute," Brass smirked. "Look, lady, answer now or answer later, either way it's not gonna save you a trip to PD and a night in holding."

"Honey what's going on? How'd your clothes get like that?" the man asked frantically looking from his wife to the bagged evidence. "Detective, I have no idea what's going on, but what exactly are you accusing my wife of?" he asked inching closer to the detective.

"Whoa, hold on there cowboy," Brass raised his hands. "We're not accusing her of anything…yet. A man was killed last night in the parking garage at the Sphere," he stated blatantly. "We just want to make sure your wife doesn't know anything about it." He watched then, as the husband turned to his wife concern masking his face. The look on the wife's face was a mess of terror, indignation, and sympathy.

"Honey, you don't know anything about that do you? _Please_, tell me you don't know anything about this," the man pleaded.

Again, there was no response from the woman.

"Is that how you're gonna play this game, Mrs. Hampton? That's fine. Officer," Brass called to the uniform standing just near the door, "escort Mrs. Hampton out."

"I'm not leaving my wife, detective."

"Well, see that's the joy of this. You don't have to. We offer family packages. You get to go with this other officer," he motioned for the second uniform to lead the man away.

The criminalists watched silently as the couple was escorted from their home.

"Uh, Grissom," Sara spoke first. "That's not all we found."

"What else is there?" he turned a questioned glance her way.

"Oh, this you have to see for yourself," Nick shook his head leading the way down the hallway. "This is just…weird," he stopped just outside the first bedroom door.

With the lights turned on, the pale pink walls were in clear view. The room sat vacant, the twin bed along the back wall neatly made. Stuffed animals sat neatly arranged at the head of the bed keeping vigil over the room. A toy chest sat opened against the far right wall toys spilling over the top and onto the floor. Spread somewhat sporadically across the floor, were giant puzzle pieces ready to be put together.

"It gets worse," Nick shook his head inching into the room allowing the others entry. "Check out the photos," he pointed to the dresser against the far wall. Atop the piece of furniture sat several framed snapshots.

"This is…" Grissom trailed off taking a photo in hand.

"Molly Hampton's room," Sara spoke up. "I found this shoe box in the master bedroom as well. It contains school work, some art projects…all done by Molly Hampton. Looks like they weren't ready to let her go."

"Hell, looks like she just stepped out of the room," Brass smirked taking in his surroundings.

"Just spending the night at a friend's house," Nick shook his head.

"Hey...uh...guys?" Catherine called down the hallway.

"We're in here," Sara called out.

Joining the group, Catherine took in the small expanse, a wonderland to the eyes. "Whoa!"

"Get anything from the garage?" Grissom asked returning the photo to its original location.

"Found our minivan with some trace amounts of blood on the driver's side. Auto detail just got here and is taking the vehicle back to the lab. Whose room is _this_?" she asked her eyes still trailing the surroundings.

"Molly Hampton," Sara added as the shrill sound of Nick's cell phone filled the room. She watched as he unhooked the device and took the call out into the hallway.

"This is Cathy and Tom's daughter?"

"Looks that way," Sara nodded again watching the other female make her way around the room. She could just make out Nick's voice as it filtered in from down the hall as he ended his phone call.

Grissom had made his way to the closet, taking in the clothes as they hung neatly, evenly spaced across the metal bar. Everything about the roomed screamed a life still being lived, screamed of life not lost. It was as if the child still lived within the walls, still ran around the house. It was as if she hadn't been missing for…

"How long has she been missing, six months was it?" Catherine asked now taking in the photos on the dresser.

"She's not missing anymore," Nick informed returning to the room. Grissom, Catherine and Brass turned abruptly meeting the younger CSI's serious expression. "That was Warrick. He and Greg just got a hit from missing persons."

* * *

"You ever work a missing person's case before?" Detective Vartann asked Greg as they walked the halls back to CSI. 

"Not this side of things. This is a first," the young man shook his head. "What now, the parent's have to identify the body, right?"

"According to Nick, the parents are now the main suspects in the Harris case," the man nodded entering the DNA lab.

"Hey guys," Warrick looked up from the counter at which he sat, "Nick just dropped off some sampled. He snagged some DNA samples from the Hampton home; we'll have a DNA profile within the hour,"

"Then we can compare it to the DNA of the victim," Greg nodded.

"Damn fine CSI work, Sanders," Vartann slapped the ex-lab tech on the shoulder. "I've got some paperwork to run. I'll catch you later."

"See ya," Warrick nodded with a chuckle.

"So…" Greg leaned against the counter. "Sounds like the Hampton's are good for Goggle's murder, well at least one of them."

"Sounds like it."

"Cathy Hampton just arrived for questioning," Greg looked over Warrick's shoulder slightly amused at the fumbling fingers of a man usually known for his nimbleness and grace.

"Damn it!" he shook his head, his frustration mounting as his hands worked to grip the test tube and failed. The glass tube clattered on the table top, breaking subsequently ruining the test sample.

"You know…Wendi's out of the lab at _least_ until noon today. She'd be pissed if she came back and you'd destroyed the entire lab, not to mention the cost you'd have to pay Ecklie. I could…" he trailed off. "It'd go a lot quicker."

"You wanna take a crack at this, be my guest," the man shook his head standing from his seat throwing his gloves in the trash. "I'd rather question a suspect any day."

"Yeah," Greg smiled, "picture that."

"You're a punk, you know that, right?"

Slightly annoyed that the man was still standing there, his eyes still cast upon the broken test tube, Greg shoved the man out of the lab. "Cathy Hampton's not getting any younger."

"Hey man!"

"Go!"

"Damn! When'd you get balls?"

"I was born with them, naturally endowed."

Warrick worked unsuccessfully to stifle his smile, "Yeah, picture that!"


	19. Emotionless Fear

**Note:** the CSI miniseries event is nearly over...one more chapter after this one!Thanks again for the reviews guys! Take in the notes in my profile regarding the nextbig project I'm alreadyworking on! **

* * *

****Chapter Nineteen** – Emotionless Fear

* * *

Cathy Hampton was nervous as she sat in the interrogation room in her slipper clad feet and flannel pajamas. Hell, she wasn't nervous; she was downright scared. It was all written in the blank stare, the stone cold expression on her face. It resonated through her body into her nerve shaken hands as she attempted to hold the proffered coffee cup steady. Nick and Warrick watched from the observation room as Brass took a seat across from their suspect.

"You think she'll crack?" Nick asked keeping his gaze straight ahead, his hands planted on his hips.

"Hard to say," his partner shook his head.

So far it had been a slow going process. The woman was being obstinate, anything but cooperative. The detective's questions seemed to be falling on deaf ears, his threats going unheeded.

Quietly, Grissom stepped into the room, joining his CSIs. With a silent nod he let Warrick know things had been taken care of. The body of Molly Harris had been identified, the husband had been cleared.

"Look, lady we've got everything we need to put you away for life. Talking can only _help_ you here," Brass sighed from his seat across the table.

Slowly she lifted her gaze to meet the detective's. There was an eerie calm behind her gaze, an unmistakable void in the depths of her eyes. "I want a lawyer," she offered coldly, her voice unwavering. She lifted the coffee cup to her lips, took a careful sip and returned the cup to the table, all while keeping a cool eye on the detective.

"Fine. That's your right," Brass shrugged standing from his seat. "I'll…uh…just go and talk to your husband while we wait for that attorney of yours to show up. You may wanna give Howard Lawson a call; I hear he's really good. You know the law firm, right? Chandler and Kao? Anyway, your husband, he's probably more willing to talk, right? He seemed a little more vocal anyway," he moved toward the door.

Something had struck a chord with her. For the first time in the hour and a half he'd had her sitting at the table, he finally saw a glimmer of something in her abysmal eyes. There was slight sign of weakness, of vulnerability. It was the open window for which he'd been waiting.

"What?" the detective asked pausing for a moment. "You don't want me talking to him? You think he'll spill the beans? Or, wait; maybe…was it the law firm? They're actually really good," he nodded. "A buddy of mine knows the guy, had a nice long chat with him just yesterday."

Her chin was quivering now, it was a slight tremble, but still, it was noticeable.

"She's cracking," Nick allowed a smile to creep across his face as he slowly made his way to the door. Warrick wasn't far behind him as he exited the observation room and made his way to the interview, leaving Grissom in solitude.

"Look, your husband's in the other room talking to my colleagues now. You want to know what he's telling them? He's telling them _everything_, and he's saying it was all _your_ idea," Brass was leaning over the table now. "So why'd you do it?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about," the woman offered between clenched teeth.

Slowly Brass stood upright, moving toward the two-way mirror. He was perturbed. Leaning against the wall, he nodded a silent greeting as the two CSIs entered the room.

"You remember Nick Stokes, right?" the detective motioned toward the criminalists. "From the crime lab?" They were greeted by another blank stare. "Well, things _were_ kind of hectic at your house earlier. Maybe things are a little blurry."

"Mrs. Hampton," Nick nodded taking a seat in front of her, "this is my partner Warrick Brown."

"It seems the cat's got her tongue," Brass smirked as he crossed his arms across his chest.

"That's okay. She doesn't have to talk, the evidence has already done that for her," Nick shook his head his gaze resting on the female suspect. Carefully, silently he arranged the files he'd brought in with him across the table.

Deliberately he handed a stack of photos to Warrick allowing him to arrange them across the tabletop. He sat back then, watching Warrick strategically place the photos. He was more interested, though, in noting Cathy Hampton's reaction to the grisly photos.

Her reaction, if it could be called that, was minimal. The woman was a stone wall of emotions.

Photos depicting the murder of Ted Goggle, the gun hanging in the man's limp grip, the bullet wedged in the garage wall filled the woman's eyes. Then there were photos taken from her home, the bloody clothes, the child's bedroom, the toys left cluttered on the floor.

Nick cast a sidelong glance at the detective, who stood equally captivated by the woman as she took in the photos. He started slowly as Warrick laid out the last of the photos, "I've been a CSI a good fifteen years, right Warrick?"

"Longer," Warrick nodded in concurrence.

"And since I've been a CSI, I've learned one thing. People _always_ leave something behind. No matter how careful they are, no matter how much they try to clean up, they _always_ leave something behind."

"Yeah, I guess you're right. And a crime scene _this_ messy," Warrick looked to the photos.

"A crime scene _this_ messy," Nick nodded, "leaves a lot of room for error. Take this, photo," he pointed to the photo of the hand-held gun. "It looks like the guy committed suicide; the guy just blew his brains out."

"Yeah, you're right."

"What do you think, Brass?" Nick turned to the detective.

"Looks like suicide to me," he nodded with a twinkle in his eye.

"That's what I thought, but then I noticed something. You see, when someone fires a gun, there's powder left behind, gunshot residue left on their hands, right?"

"So, Nick, did you find gunshot residue on this guy's hands?" Brass asked, passing his gaze from the CSI to the suspect.

"Nope. I sure didn't."

"You know that raises a lot of questions," Warrick shook his head, "'cause no gunshot residue on his hands means he wasn't holding the gun when he was shot."

"Now that makes me think someone else shot him," Brass raised a brow.

"See, that's what I was thinking," Nick nodded. "But that alone isn't enough to make that conclusion, so I took a closer look at the gun."

"Did you track the serial number?" Warrick asked.

"Well you see that's where things got a little tricky. See, Bobby, that's our ballistics guy?" he turned to the woman, "Bobby told me the serial was in scripted in the chamber barrel. So, reading it was near impossible."

"You didn't get a read?" Brass asked.

"I said _near_ impossible," Nick smirked. "Oh, we got the number and you'll never guess who popped up in the firearms database," he turned back to the suspect. "I bet Mrs. Hampton here could tell us."

"Do you own a gun, Mrs. Hampton?" Brass questioned. "Oh, sorry you're not talking until that lawyer of yours gets here, I forgot," he raised his hands defensively. "I wonder where he is," he shook his head as he passed a glance to the closed door of the interview room.

"Well you see, the gun was registered to a Cathy _Warner_," Nick told the detective. "So, I had Warrick look into it."

"Yeah, turns out Warner was a maiden name," Warrick added. "Cathy Warner is now…Cathy Hampton."

"And that's you," the detective turned back to the suspect, "You see? You really _don't_ need to talk."

"_You_ killed Ted Goggle," Nick glared at the woman. "You used _your_ gun, planted it at the scene to make it look like a suicide."

"That's a great story," the woman said, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Oh, it's not a story," Warrick leaned forward now. "We have you on tape, too. Parking garage surveillance picked you up. You were pretty good at avoiding the cameras on the first seven levels. You kinda got sloppy on the eighth. We traced the license plate on your minivan, too. But here's what I don't get; why him? Why a _nobody_ like Ted Goggle?"

"He wasn't a nobody, though, was he?" Nick directed the question to the suspect. "Ted Goggle was supplying you a family, wasn't he? He was the one giving you foster children. We found the papers."

"You see, this all started with the murder of a family here in Vegas. You might know them," Brass pulled up a chair. "Frank and Diane Harris were killed in their home two nights ago, along with their two teenagers. But, you knew that already didn't you?"

"Why'd you pay Ted Goggle, Mrs. Hampton?" Nick asked.

"You see, we were able to figure out that Ted Goggle was the one who killed the Harris family," Brass informed. "He left quite a bit behind, too."

"When we searched his home, we found a check you had written to him," Nick continued. "A hundred and fifty thousand dollars is a lot of money."

"And from the looks of your home, you're not really pullin' down that kind of cash," the detective smirked. "What were you paying him for, killing the Harris's?"

"Mrs. Hampton, we know about your missing daughter," Warrick added calmly as he opened the manila file in front of him. "Were you hoping by killing the Harris's you'd get Emily?"

"You see, we know about your investigation into the Harris's. You thought Emily Harris was your missing daughter? Was Ted Goggle supposed to deliver Emily after the deed was done?" Brass asked with a glare in his eye.

"But things went differently," Nick shook his head, his voice low. "Things didn't go as planned, did they? What? Was Emily too smart for the man?"

"So when Goggle comes back empty handed, you decide to get even," Warrick smirked. "You arranged a meeting in the parking garage at the Sphere."

"We tracked your phone records too," Brass nodded.

"You wanted your money back, thought maybe you could work things out," Warrick shrugged.

"But he wouldn't have anything to do with it, would he?" Nick broke in. "And in all honesty, you really didn't go there to _work_ things out, now did you?"

"Why else carrythe gun to the meeting?" Brass shrugged.

"I talked with the lawyer over at Chandler and Kao who handled the case," Warrick picked up. "DNA tests were run on all the Harris children, background checks were done on both adoptions. Everything panned out. Emily Harris was _not_ your child."

"You couldn't accept that, though, could you?" Brass interjected.

"You see, when you decide to take things into your own hands, rather than letting the police, letting _us_ do our jobs, everyone loses," Nick shook his head. He could feel his emotions threatening to take control, to boil over. "Now, there's a scared little girl lying in a hospital bed. Her family is dead because _you_ thought you could fix things? She's without a family because you…" he trailed off, his eyes becoming slits as his voice became thick with disdain. The thought of what this woman had done was enough to make his stomach turn. "Your daughter, Molly, has been missing six months, right?" he asked looking deep into the woman's eyes. There was a hint of emotion at the sound of her daughter's name, a glint of recognition. The ice cold began to melt away; a mother's pain slowly began to ebb to the surface.

Casting a wary glance toward his partner, Warrick spoke softly, slowly, "Mrs. Hampton, we…we found your daughter. Your husband has already identified her body," he slid the photo of the child's body across the table.

The three men watched as the emotional dam began to crack, a single tear sliding softly down the woman's cheek.

"She…she was a beautiful girl," she whispered as she picked up the photo. "She took piano lessons, played soccer in the fall." Carefully she passed her fingers over the image of the child. "She was happy, never without a smile on her face."

"Mrs. Hampton," Nick spoke softly.

"She didn't come home from school one day. She was seven years old," she shrugged. "When I drove to the school that day…I thought maybe she'd just missed the bus. The principal said he hadn't noticed her, hadn't seen her. Her teacher couldn't tell me anything," she choked back a sob. "Tom and I waited all afternoon, praying she'd walk through the front door. When she didn't…" she trailed off. Her tears were flowing freely now. "What…what happened to her?" she lifted her gaze to meet Warrick's.

"We're still investigating," he carefully took the photo from her grasp.

"But, how…_how_ did she die?"

"She was suffocated," he replied dryly.

"Mrs. Hampton," Nick spoke up again, "can you tell us one thing?"

Slowly, she shifted her gaze to the second CSI. She was no longer the cold, stone wall she had been at the beginning of the interview. No, now she was a broken, grief stricken mother.

"Why'd you do it? Why go through all of this for a child you _knew_ wasn't yours?"

"A mother would do anything for the love of a daughter," she shrugged empathically.

Quietly the criminalists stood, gathered their photos and turned to leave the room. Their questions were getting them nowhere. Though the evidence gave them all the answers they needed, there was still one question looming in the back of Nick's mind.

Reaching the door, he watched as Warrick turned and threw him a questioning look. Turning back to Cathy Hampton he hesitated. His question needed to be asked.

Licking his lips he cleared his throat and asked, "Was it worth it? Your daughter's dead. An innocent family is dead, a child left orphaned. Was it worth it?"

He let his gaze linger on her taking in every breath she took.

"You know what?" he shook his head. "Never mind. I don't even want to know."

* * *

"We have no evidence connecting Tom Hampton to any of these murders," Grissom shook his head as he stood in the hallway of PD. He stood with Nick, Warrick and Brass watching as Cathy Hampton was being led away in handcuffs. 

"Hey guys," Sara turned the corner from CSI, "We just got a match to the blood found on Cathy Hampton's clothing."

"Ted Goggle?" Bass asked grimly.

The female nodded silently her eyes trailing down the hall toward their retreating suspect. "And, DNA confirms she's the one who wore the gloves found in the shrubs at Goggle's. So what happened in there? Did she confess?"

"Not exactly," Warrick shook his head as he took the lead in the parade back to the lab.

"But we've got her, right?" she asked.

"The blood evidence is the nail in the coffin," Brass nodded sardonically.

"So, what about your missing persons case?" Nick addressed Warrick as they passed the crux of the crime lab separating from the rest of the team.

"Well, the girl's been identified. Vartann is following up on that. As far as evidence is concerned, there's not much. DNA was inconclusive, the samples were too small to process," he shrugged heading to the break room. "My job is pretty much done, I guess. I mean, the body was dumped on the road, I pulled a few stray fibers from her clothing…" he trailed off as he poured a cup of coffee.

"What kind of fibers?"

"Red, tri-lobal."

"Probably from the car used to make the dump," Nick nodded pulling a bottle of water from the fridge.

"Other than that, there's nothing really to work with. The ground under the body was clean, nothing probative. Kind of makes follow up hard," he shook his head leaning against the counter. "Besides, sounds like the father really doesn't want to push it any further," he looked to his friend. The man looked worn, emotionally and physically. "You alright?"

"Yeah," Nick sighed in response.

"You nearly lost it in there with the suspect. The case getting to you that bad?"

Nick took in another deep breath, held it, and released it slowly. Silently he crossed the room, retreating to the sofa where he slumped down with a heavy thud. He placed the still unopened bottle of water on the cushion beside him.

"It's not really the case," he shook his head.

"Is it the girl?" Warrick asked exhuming a puff of air as he fell into the adjacent chair.

"_Damn_ it, Rick. You didn't see her in the hospital like that, in that hospital bed," he leaned his head against the back of the couch.

"No, I didn't."

"I don't know," the Texan sighed. "There's just…"

"Something special?"

"Yeah," he nodded with a sigh. "There's… something special."

The two sat silently for several minutes, taking in the past three days. The case had been a nightmare, the evidence leading them in circles. Still, they'd managed to make sense of it all. They'd managed to track down and make sense of the seemingly incomprehensible clues. And now it was all over. The case was solved. The evidence was logged away.

"I was tested to be a bone marrow donor," Nick broke the silence.

"What? When?"

"A couple days ago," he shrugged. His eyes were closed as his head rested on the back of the sofa. "I wasn't a match."

"Man…I'm sorry, bro," Warrick let out a long breath.

"Don't be," he looked to his partner. "It was never about me."

"So, have they found a donor yet?"

"They were getting closer. But, I don't know," Nick stood picking up his water.

"Hey look," Warrick hesitated as he followed his friend and stepped into the hallway, "Tina's working first today. Shift's almost up, you wanna go grab some breakfast?"

"Did I hear something about breakfast?" Greg smiled as he joined the two on his way back from DNA.

There was a sudden tension in the taller CSI's shoulders. It wasn't much, but it was enough to bring Nick to attention and throw a quick glance between the two men.

"Hey Greggo," Nick smiled softly as he took the lead toward Grissom's office. "Yeah, breakfast sounds great," he nodded.

"I'm game, too," Greg smiled.

"Yeah, picture that," Warrick smirked, the tension easing slightly as he slapped the younger man on the shoulder. "Never known you to pass on food."

"I mean, you are buying right? That was a bonafide offer, right?" he laughed ducking the punches thrown his way.

"Hey Greg, since when has Warrick ever foot the bill for you?" Nick shook his head.

"It's true, man," Warrick shook his head. "Shoot, though with all this overtime we've clocked in?"

"Yeah, I heard Ecklie's up Grissom's ass about it too," Nick grimaced. "I got the brunt of that blow last night."

"Ecklie, the friendly neighborhood pain in the ass," Warrick shook his head, as the three entered Grissom's office.

"What are you guys still doing here?" the supervisor looked up from his computer.

"DNA just came back on all the blood samples collected from Goggle's house," Greg spoke first.

"And?"

"Let's just say, if the guy wasn't already dead he would be in about 20 to life."

"So, we know who killed the Harris's," Nick leaned against the filing cabinet to his right taking a long draw from his water.

"And we know who killed our killer," Warrick nodded as he took a seat opposite the entomologist.

"Hey, what ever happened with the missing person's case?" Greg asked.

"Well, the girl's been identified as Molly Hampton."

"The daughter of Tom and Cathy Hampton?" Greg asked. The three senior CSIs nodded in concurrence. "So where does that leave the case?"

"Evidence is minimal. I lifted a few fibers from the girl's clothing, most likely from the car used to dump the body," Warrick picked back up. "Other than a bruise pattern on her back, I've got nothing."

"Well, Tom Hampton has signed for the release of the body. For all intents and purposes, our job is done," Grissom shrugged.

"Still, I hate leaving the case open like that," Warrick stood from his chair turning to leave the office. "Can't solve them all, I guess."

"That's the job," Grissom shrugged leaning back in his chair watching as his guys exited his office.

"Ready to roll?" Nick asked turning to exit the room.

"Hey guys," the supervisor called out stopping them just the other side of the door, "nice work. Get some rest."

"See ya tonight," the three nodded with tired, yet satisfied smiles.

The sun was bright, warm and welcoming as Nick stepped down from his truck, joining Warrick and Greg in the parking lot of their dining destination.

"Roxy's Diner," the Texan shook his head with a satisfied grin on his face. "Best Mexican Omelets in town. Nothing beats eggs, salsa, and warm tortillas."

"Except maybe the heart attack that ensues after," Warrick smirked holding the door open allowing his companions entry.

"Damn dude, is marriage making you soft? You telling me Tina has you whipped that bad? They grow them tough in Texas, remember?" Nick smiled sliding into a booth near the back of the establishment.

"That include arteries of steel?" Greg laughed mockingly as he slid in the booth across the table.

"Nerves of steel, maybe," Warrick shook his head. "Balls of steel, sure. Arteries of steel, doubtful."

"Uh, huh," Nick laughed turning his coffee mug right side up allowing the waitress to freely pour the black brew into it. Reaching for the milk, he prepped his coffee.

"The usual, guys?" the waitress smiled pulling out her order pad and pencil.

"Uh, Nick here wants the fruit plate and a bowl of yogurt with granola," Warrick closed his menu. "Dude's cutting back."

"Cutting back, my ass," Nick shook his head. "If you can magically turn that fruit plate and yogurt into a Mexican Omelet, have at it. Rick, man I'm not Sara."

"Usual then?" the girl raised a brow now as she blew a puff of air upward, fluffing up her pangs.

"Usual," the criminalists nodded in unison.

"Hey guys, check it out," Greg pointed to the TV in the far corner as images of the early morning news flashed across the screen.

_Sources inside the Crime Lab have informed us the case regarding the Harris family murders is now closed. Las Vegas Sheriff McKeene addressed the media in an early morning press conference. _

"The suspect, Cathy Warner Hampton, has been charged with four counts of conspiracy to murder and one count of first degree murder. The heinous acts planned and put into action against the Harris family will not go unpunished. Our thoughts are with the victims and their families."

_The murder trial of Cathy Warner Hampton is set to commence as early as next month._

"So that's it," Nick sighed as he turned his back to the television subsequently taking a quick sip from his coffee.

"It's over," Greg shrugged.

"Guess so," Warrick nodded.

"Yeah guess so," Nick turned his gaze outside. He'd heard it before. He hadn't believed it then, didn't believe it now.

They still didn't get it.

It's never over.


	20. Inconsistent Consistency

**Note:** a sort of bittersweet moment...this is the final chapter. A bit sad to see this come to an end...but I have to say I think this is my favorite chapter of the whole thing! Put a lot of work into this one...and well...made me smile re-reading it! So...hope you enjoyed...and I DO have a new project in the works...hopefully can get that up before the end of the month!**

* * *

****Chapter Twenty** – Inconsistent Consistency

* * *

_Let it all out  
get it all out  
rip it out remove it  
don't be alarmed  
when the wound begins to bleed _

cause we're so scared to find out  
what this life's all about  
so scared we're going to lose it  
not knowing all along  
that's exactly what we need

and today I will trust you with confidence  
of a man who's never known defeat  
but tomorrow, upon hearing what I did  
I will stare at you in disbelief  
oh, inconsistent me  
crying out for consistency

and you said I know that this will hurt  
but if I don't break your heart then things will just get worse  
If the burden seems too much to bear  
Remember  
the end will justify the pain it took to get us there

and I'll let it be known  
at times I have shown  
signs of all my weakness  
but somewhere in me  
there is strength

and you promise me  
that you believe  
in time I will defeat this  
cause somewhere in me  
there is strength

and today I will trust you with the confidence  
of a man who's never known defeat  
and I'll try my best to just forget  
that that man isn't me

reach out to me  
make my heart brand new  
every beat will be for you  
for you

and I know you know  
you touched my life  
when you touched my heavy heart and made it light

"_Let it All Out" by Relient K

* * *

_

_"Nick,"_ Sam whispered gently lifting the man from his sleep. _"How long have you been here?"_

Slowly the man sat up from his slumped position within the chair. Forcing his eyes to focus, willing his brain to inventory his surroundings, he glanced at his watch. It was nearly nine o'clock.

_"Have you been here all day?"_ she asked as she worked to tuck in Emily's blankets.

He nodded silently, his eyes falling upon the sleeping child. It was all coming back to him. They'd closed the case. He'd had breakfast with Warrick and Greg and then he'd come straight to the hospital. _"Yeah,"_ he nodded again kneading the back of his neck. Sleeping in the chair was hell on his muscles. They'd be thanking him for it tenfold come morning.

_"Why don't you go home?"_ she asked watching the criminalist stand.

He shook his head, working now to stretch his back muscles. _"Promised her I'd stay,"_ he motioned for the nurse to follow him outside. "I'm off tonight, so I told her I'd stick around," he explained once he was in the hall. "I don't mind staying. She really didn't want to be left alone," he shrugged.

"So what's happening with the case?" the nurse asked leading him down the hall. "I've been following what I can on the news, but around here that's kind of a hard thing to do," she stopped at the vending machine near the nurse's station. "You got the person that did this, right?"

"Yeah," Nick lifted a hand to cover his yawn as he accepted the steaming cup of coffee offered him. "Thanks. Yeah, we got the person," he nodded leaning against the wall.

The hospital was quiet, the hallway nearly deserted except for medical staff. Visiting hours were long since over, only families with extenuating circumstances were allowed to stay overnight. Nick had been given special clearance by the medical staff, Emily's own condition and family situation playing into things.

"So, what happens now? What will you do now?"

"Well, tomorrow night I'll go back to work. I'll get a new case. That's the thing about Vegas. There's always something for me to do," he shrugged pushing off the wall and walking toward the waiting area. "I found out Emily has an aunt in Carson City. CPS has been in contact with her. I think they're making arrangements. She can't make it down here until the weekend, though."

"Emily won't even _talk_ about what happened," Sam took a seat in the dimly lit waiting room. "She's been more open with you than anyone. You're really good with her. You're good _for_ her."

"It's not easy talking sometimes," the Texan sighed as he slid into the chair next to the nurse. "Sometimes it's just easier to forget. Has there been anyone to talk with her? A therapist?"

"It's standard protocol," she nodded taking a sip of her coffee. "Every oncology patient talks with a therapist, talks about their progress, their setbacks. They learn ways of coping with their illness, with their treatments. Everything that happened…well, it all plays a part in Emily's sessions."

"That'll help," Nick nodded. "She'll talk when she's ready."

"You sure about staying here all night?"

"I told her I would," he nodded again. "Besides, I'm used to these hours. I slept all day. I brought a book and I have excellent night vision," he grinned finishing off his coffee.

* * *

"Hey Nick, I just got with Wendy," Warrick caught up with his partner in the halls of CSI. It'd been nearly a week since the close of the Harris case. "Turns out the blood on the sweater you found at the scene _was_ an ad-mixture. There were three different donors."

"So there was a third person at the scene when our vic was killed," Nick took the report offered him.

"We assumed there was only _one_ killer."

"So, maybe our killer had an accomplice," Nick shrugged closing the file and tucking in under his arm. "Do we know who this third person is?"

"Ran the blood sample through CODIS," Warrick nodded, "got a hit on a non-gaming work card at the Tangiers," he handed over a printout.

"Jason Kendrick."

"He's in holding now," Warrick nodded leading the way to PD.

* * *

"Look, kid. We know you were there. We have your blood on the victim's sweater," Detective Cavaliere leaned into the suspect. He was a young kid, no older than a sophomore in college. The detective seemed to find a slightly sadistic pleasure in watching him squirm.

"The kid's scared shitless," Nick shook his head as he watched through the two way mirror. "He's not gonna talk with Cavaliere breathing down his neck. _Look_ at him. Do we even have a _real_ connection with him and the victim?"

"Nothing solid yet," Warrick shook his head. "But, his blood on the victim's sweater is pretty compelling."

"You know you look like a punk when you don't talk right?" the detective moved behind the suspect, his mouth inches from his ear. "You're looking at first degree murder. A punk ass like you will get the death penalty; and you've got a record, you'd go down for sure."

"I…" the kid stammered, "I swear I didn't kill nobody. I…I can explain what happened."

"Well, somebody better," Cavaliere moved to the empty chair across the table, "because quite frankly I'm tired of looking for the answers myself."

"I…I was with my roommate. We'd just been to a party at Bar 911. We were both pretty drunk," he managed a nervous laugh.

"We've got him," Warrick nodded with a grin as the chirp of Nick's cell phone filled the silence.

"Stokes," he answered as he flipped his mobile open. Casting a quick apologetic glance Warrick's way he silently took his call into the hallway. "Are you sure?" he asked closing the door behind him.

_"We've got a match,"_ Sam repeated. The smile in her voice was enough to electrify the entire city.

He felt his heart leap; his nerve endings going on high alert. This was what they'd been waiting for. This is what Emily had been waiting for.

_"We've just started prepping her for the conditioning regimen."_

"I'll be there as soon as I can. Let her know I'm coming," he nodded closing the call and returning to the interview.

"We've just nailed this kid," Warrick smiled upon the return of his partner.

"Rick, look man, I've gotta go."

"What?" he turned to the man unbelievingly.

"Look, I'm sorry but, something's come up. It's something I've gotta do."

"Emily?"

"Yeah," he nodded. "They've got a donor matched up."

"Seriously?"

"Yeah," Nick smiled now. "Look, I hate leaving but I promised…"

"Hell, man, you don't need to explain! Just go," he nudged the man toward the door.

"If Griss…"

"I've got Grissom covered," he shook his head. "Go."

"Thanks, bro."

* * *

Traffic was light in the pre-dawn hours as he weaved his way down Boulder Highway. So far he'd been lucky enough to catch every light while it was green. His stomach was a mass of knots, twisting and pulling his insides in every direction. He'd been so excited he'd nearly skipped stopping at his locker, but thought better of it as he felt the weight of his side arm at his hip. Quickly securing his weapon and grabbing his jacket he made a beeline for the lab exit grateful that he'd managed to escape without the notice of Grissom or Catherine. He'd call them later if he needed to.

Now, arriving at the hospital, he wheeled his truck to a stop. His pace quickened as he crossed the nearly empty parking lot and breezed through the empty lobby to the bank of elevators. To his relief he found an empty lift waiting on the ground floor. Hurrying inside he pushed the button for the fourth floor releasing a deep breath as he leaned back against the wall.

As the doors slid open on the fourth floor he was pleased to find Sam waiting for him, a smile plastered across her face.

"How is she?" Nick asked stepping across the gap.

"So far so good," she nodded leading him down the hall. "The doctor has taken her down the hall to one of the prep rooms. She's waiting for you."

"Have you called her aunt?"

"She'll be here as soon as she can."

Silently the two weaved their way around the nurse's station and into a new part of the oncology ward. Here, the rooms were isolated, glass cubicles. Sterile environments.

"You'll have to wash your hands, put on a gown and wear a mask," Sam began her instructions stopping just outside one of the smaller rooms, "but you can go in and be with her. The chemo they're administering is really strong, she's gonna be pretty out of it."

"It keeps her immune system from attacking the donor cells," Nick nodded as he prepared to go into the room. "Yeah, I read up on it."

"Then you know she's going to get pretty sick."

"It's part of it," he nodded again, allowing her to tie the gown behind his neck. "I told her I'd be here. I'm here for it all," he paused before walking inside.

"Go on in," she coaxed gently slowly sliding the door open.

Emily was small; her battle with the disease had obviously taken its toll. Her eyes were closed, her breathing slow and rhythmic. Quietly he slid into the chair near the head of her bed fearing the slightest noise might wake her. He watched then as her eyes slowly fluttered open and a smile inched across her face.

"Hey kiddo," he grinned leaning over to grip the child's hand.

"You're here."

"I told you I would be," he nodded. "This is your big day, where else would I be?"

She smiled again, her eyes closing, heavy with the medication. She was clearly in a lot of pain. "I wish my mom and dad were here," she whispered.

Damn this girl had a grip on him. "Oh, sweetheart," he felt his voice catching in his throat, "I know. I wish they were too," he squeezed her hand. "I wish they were here too."

* * *

"So what happens now?" Nick asked as he closed the door to Emily's room behind him. It was nearly midmorning and Emily was sleeping soundly for the first time since he'd arrived.

"It's a waiting game," Sam sighed as she swiped a strand of hair from her face. "She's on chemo for the next couple hours. We'll be able to administer the new blood sometime this evening. After that, we wait and hope her body accepts it," she shrugged. "You look tired."

"I am," he nodded glancing back in at the sleeping girl. "I'm gonna go down to the waiting room, take a twenty. Come get me if anything changes?"

"You got it," the nurse nodded watching the retreating criminalist.

The sound of children laughing emanated from the rec room floating through the halls. It was a sound in stark contrast to the hissing and beeping of monitors that filled the hall from whence the CSI came. Right now, though, he longed for silence, for nothingness.

Turning the corner, his destination in sight, he felt a slight release of the tension that had been building over the past six hours. The TV in the top corner was tuned and muted to the morning news. Images of news from the still recent Harris case filled the screen. Jury selection was slated to begin in just a few days. Taking in the images, the criminalist shook his head. It was still a long road to be traveled.

Resigned to settling in his unofficially claimed chair and trying to catch some shut eye, he was brought to an abrupt stop when he found it occupied.

"Grissom!" he couldn't help but sound surprised at seeing the man there. "Wh…what are you doing here?"

"Warrick closed the case you two were working. He let me know you left early when he filled me in on the details," he stated matter-of-factly.

"He told you I was here?" the Texan took a seat just down from his supervisor.

"No, I just assumed. Nick…" he had that tone, he knew he had that tone, and worse, Nick knew he had that tone. It was the tone that told everyone they were about to get an earful

"Look, I know what you're thinking," Nick started, "And I know what you're going to say. I'm too emotionally involved, right? We've had this talk before, Griss. And I've told you before…I'm not you," he shook his head as he stood and began pacing the floor. "I've been coming to see Emily everyday since we started the case, and everyday since we closed it. She doesn't have any family, Griss. CPS is on hold with her case, and her aunt is still in Carson City. It's a nine hour drive, not like she can be here at the drop of a hat. I mean she has three kids of her own."

"Nick…"

"CPS is working on the custody arrangements, her aunt has agreed to full custody, but you know how it is, there's a massive chain of paper work and since Ted Goggle is dead, they've been working to assign a new case worker and straighten out the crap he started."

"Nick!"

"What?" the younger man stopped abruptly turning a perturbed look to the man.

Grissom looked at him, his face a muddled mess of concern and wonder at the man before him. The man was a mystery, a mass of emotions on fire for his work, for the people around him, for this little girl. How could anyone be so passionate about something, so emotionally involved? "Look," he started, "normally you'd be right," he shrugged. "Normally I _would_ say you're too involved. Normally I _would_ call your judgment into question."

"But…" Nick finally resigned to a chair.

"But not this time," he shook his head. "I know you've been coming to see Emily. I know you have a connection with her. And like I've told you before…I'm _glad_ you're not me. Lord knows there's barely room for _one_ of me at CSI. God _forbid_ there ever be two," he cocked a half grin.

"So, then… What are you doing here?"

"Honestly…"

"Catherine sent you," Nick sunk further into his chair.

"She thought maybe you could use the company," he shrugged in return.

"That figures. Griss, you don't have to stay."

"How's Emily?"

The Texan let out a long sigh. "She's sleeping for now," he sighed leaning his head back on the wall. "They've got her on an intense round of chemo, working to rid her body of the cancer. She's in a lot of pain."

"How are _you_ holding up?"

"I'll live," he shrugged.

"You know, Nick…" the supervisor leaned forward, his eyes on an invisible spot on the carpet.

"Grissom, you don't have to do this."

"What?"

"_This_," he waved a hand between the two of them. "Look, go back to the lab, tell Catherine we had our talk. I'm fine."

"How do you do it?"

"What?"

"Live like this. How do you live with so much passion, with so much _emotion_? Look, I know things have been stressed lately…between us."

"Griss…"

"Please," the man shook his head. "I haven't handled things the way I should have. I know I haven't been the boss…the _friend_ I should have been. I've failed the team…and ultimately, I failed _you,_ too many times. I'm sorry for that. And I know an apology is of little consolation."

"Grissom…"

"I'll be the first to admit," he continued, "there's a lot I need to change about the way I do my job. There are a lot of things I could do to be more effective, to be a better team leader, to be a better person. Every day that I can go home with the team still intact, is another day I can sleep peacefully. That's not the way I should be dealing with things," he shook his head, "that's not the way I should be doing my job. It's not fair to the team and it's not fair to you, Nick."

"Griss…" he felt the softball returning to his throat. Damn it, if he cracked in front of him…

"Look," the man stood now, "You need to be here for Emily. Take as long as you need. You've got plenty of vacation days saved up. Take the rest of the week off, be here for her."

"What about…" Nick stood now joining his boss.

"The lab can manage a few days without you. And well…you need rest as much as Emily needs you here."

Nick watched silently then, still reeling from the words just spoken by his boss, watching as the man turned and left the waiting room. He was alone.

Again.

* * *

"Nick!"

What time was it? Had he fallen asleep?

"What?" he sat up, slowly lifting from the fog.

"Hey man, come on." It was Warrick. He was home, on his couch. "Dude, come on we're gonna be late."

"What time is it?"

"Almost noon, let's go," he offered a lighthearted laugh as he opened the blinds, letting the noontime sun filter in.

"I'm up," the Texan yawned running a hand through his nearing unbearably long hair. He really needed to get it cut. It was next on his list of things to do. After…

Slowly he lifted himself from the sofa. Slipping on a pair of sneakers, he quickly tied the laces.

"Come on, man, they're waiting."

"Alright," he nodded. "Let's go," he said grabbing his wallet and keys off the table near the front door.

"Here," Warrick laughed handing his friend a ball cap as they stepped outside, "cover that mop up."

"That bad?"

"You look like a damn sheep dog," he chuckled as he climbed into the passenger seat of Nick's truck.

"Have you got everything?" Jane Griggson threw the question back to the little girl as she loaded the last suitcase into the back of her SUV. They were in the driveway of the Harris' home, loading up Emily's belongings. She smiled then, her eyes filled with sympathy as she turned to shut the trunk door. Her eyes fell then to the CSI standing a few feet away. "I want to thank you for everything," she nodded as her smile widened.

Nick nodded solemnly, his eyes still fixed on the little girl standing beside him. Carefully he bent down, picking the girl up in his arms.

"I'll miss you," Emily wrapped her arms around his neck.

He couldn't trust his voice, knew it would break were he to try and speak. So, he wrapped the girl in his arms and held her. It had been almost two months since the success of the bone marrow transplant.

"We've arranged for all of her medical files to be transferred to Carson City," her aunt nodded from her position near her vehicle. "She'll have all her follow up done there."

"You'll write to me, right?" Nick smiled as he crouched down, returning the girl to the ground. "I want to see some more of those puppet shows."

"I'll write you every day," she smiled hugging him again.

"Come on honey, we've got a long trip ahead," Jane smiled opening the back passenger door.

Nick stood then, taking her by the hand and leading her to the vehicle. Helping her into the backseat he smiled as the door was closed.

"Thank you again, for everything. You saved Emily's life, you know," the woman turned embracing the criminalist.

"She did that on her own," he shook his head. "You…you've got my number," he stammered, his voice threatening to falter once more.

"I'll call you if anything…," she nodded. "We'll keep you updated," she smiled.

"Have a safe trip," he nodded opening the driver's door for her.

"We will," she climbed in as he closed her in.

Nick stepped back then, watching as the vehicle backed out of the driveway.

"Bye Nick!" Emily waved through the lowered window.

He smiled, waving as he watched the car drive away.

It was over.

"You alright?" Warrick asked as his partner returned to his car.

"Yeah," he nodded in return as he turned the ignition, subsequently pulling away from the curb. "I will be."

"You sure about doing this now?"

"Definitely," Nick smiled now as he turned the corner leaving the subdivision.

"You're sure?" Warrick asked again, "'Cause you know I brought along my can of whoop ass, right?"

"Nah, but you sure brought the trash talk," the Texan laughed. "You may wanna roll the window down and hang your head out, pretty soon there won't be room for it in here."

"Uh huh," Warrick laughed as they turned into the nearby park. "Come on, dawg. Let's do this thing right," he climbed out of the vehicle grabbing the basketball he'd thrown into the backseat subsequently tossing it to Nick.

"Hey, does Tina know you're out past your bedtime?" Nick stopped short of the court. "I don't wanna get you in trouble with the wife."

"What? Man, come on," he reached for the ball.

Nick laughed as he quickly eluded the snag. "I'm serious; you know how she gets when you're out past hours. Have you called her?"

"Shit, Nicky if you don't quit the yappin' I'm gonna take that ball and shove it down your throat."

"Fine," Nick threw the ball at the man. "It's your funeral." Pulling his shirt up over his head, he threw it to the ground, joining his friend on the court.

"You know I'm gonna kick your ass, right?" Warrick smirked checking the ball, starting the game of play.

"Yeah, you wish," Nick dribbled and stepped back taking a shot over his partner's head. The sound of the ball swooshing through the hoop was music to his ears. "That's three, boss," he laughed.

"Thought I'd give you one."

"I bet," the Texan laughed. "What do you say we make this interesting?" There was a glint in his brown eyes.

"What'd you have in mind?"

"Loser does the other's grunt work for a week. Labs, trash runs, you name it," Nick smiled mischievously.

"A week, huh?"

"Hell, let's make it two."

"Oh, it's on," Warrick nodded.

"We've got a wager?"

"We've got one _hell_ of a wager," he nodded again.

"Alright," Nick smiled picking back up on the dribble. "You ready?"

"I'm ready," Warrick nodded, upping his guard.

"You ready?"

"Shit, man, I'm _ready_!"

"You're not ready," Nick stepped back, his dribble slowing.

"Damn it bro, just take the shot," Warrick stepped up matching the man's motions.

With surprising speed, Nick maneuvered around the man, evading the attempted steal and making an easy lay up.

"I believe that gives me five," he laughed returning to the top of the key to check the ball.

"Just play the game," Warrick smiled returning the check. It'd been too long between games, their lives seemingly on separate paths outside the lab. But, today it was great seeing his friend smiling, the weight of the past two and a half months, and even the past year, lifting from his shoulders. Today, at least, they were back where they need to be. "Just play the game."


End file.
